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neowinestainedress · 7 months ago

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wave | lee donghyuck

pairing: lee donghyuck x fem reader genre: college au, academics rivals to lovers, kinda fake dating, forced to work together on a project, smut, fluff, humor (idk), music major!haechan, music major!mc | not really requested but thank you 💌 anon for the inspo summary: your indifference toward Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, becomes rivalry when he decides to sabotage you. The battle turns into a war, the war turns into a plan, and the plan, well, the plan fails miserably... or succeeds wonderfully. After all, it’s all about points of view. Or, Haechan thinks he found a way to distract you and be better than you, but doesn’t think it thoroughly and screws it up. warnings: smut, mentioned weed consumption, alcohol use, fingering, oral (receiving), unprotected sex, public sex, jealous sex, bickering, teasing, etc | inclusivity notes: reader wears different hairstyles (no mention of texture, type and color), no mention of body type (but haechan lifts her a few times), no mention of skin color, no use of y/n wc: 22.4k (out of 42k)

a/n: finally i’m back! i started this fic more than a year ago so seeing it finally come to life means everything to me. i had so much fun writing it, so i hope you’ll love it too. please, let me know with comments, reblogs (that also help reach more people), or anon. i love knowing what you think. enjoy! also if there are formatting mistakes please let me know cause i’ve been having problems posting this and i copied it without editing it once again.

masterpost (with visuals and playlist) (i can’t post the link or else the post doesn’t show up in the tags, but you can find it on my profile)

Being number one in your academy isn’t a want, but a need.

You didn’t spend your entire life crafting your skills and splitting yourself between the books and the training room for all of that to be swept under the rug when you finally made it to your dream university; Neo Arts Academy.

Surely, with the prizes promised to those on top, you aren’t the only one with that racing passion to drive you through each day. Tons of people try their best, and even put their health at risk to reach the biggest success, but you manage to focus on yourself and keep your life in a pretty healthy balance.

You managed to focus on you… until something, well, somebody, started to come into your way.

Lee Donghyuck, also known as Haechan, his stage name —if he ever made it big in the industry he wanted to be already known.

You never paid him much attention. Honestly, you never paid attention to anybody, your only goal was to take care of your small garden and top everybody else, but when his competitiveness got the best of him, you just couldn’t push him in the back of your mind.

Apparently, his goals are the same as yours, and that isn’t a nice thing considering how competitive your world is. You first truly glanced at him during a songwriting lesson, when he huffed a bit too loudly behind you while he announced to his friend, probably named Mark, that he sucked at writing songs. However, you only chuckled mindlessly that time and went on with your day.

That was your first year there and everything went fine. Then the second year arrived and you applied for your minor degree in dance and that was when Donghyuck’s presence started to be louder. You had nothing against him, but you quickly learned he couldn’t stand you for some reason. Rumours were quick at flying around, being passed from mouth to ear and you knew them.

You simply couldn’t care.

Yet.

Haechan doesn’t hate you. He could never do that. After all, he doesn’t even know you. But he does know something about you. He knows your name, and how it is always on top of his in any ranking. He knows you will always win the contests he wants to win so badly. He knows you are good at theory and practice. He knows he just can’t win with you.

He also knows nothing can touch you. Not because you are unreachable and believe you’re superior to others. Actually, you are very modest about all your academic success, but you always walk straight on your road with the goal perfectly in the line of view.

Haechan doesn’t hate you. Though, lately, he has a strange feeling in his body every time he sits at his desk to study and his only motivation is to surpass you. Nothing different than the first months there, he got pretty soon you were going to be a tough but nice competitor, but fuck he never imagined you would be so hard to beat. Now that after a year he never won or got the top grade and always came second after you, you aren’t motivating him, you are driving him insane.

He doesn’t have many distractions, but he has friends, some hobbies outside of university, and even a part-time job. But you? Is there something that is distracting you? Is there anything that could distract you? He has no idea, not now that he is watching you walk into the room, ready for the classical ballet history class —yes, of course out of all the minors, you had to choose his— and sit a few rows in front of him, all alone as always, taking out your lilac book note and your pen.

Haechan has no idea, but he is going to find out something that can easily distract you and push out of your path.

You know people think of university as a moment to socialise, but being on your own has never been a problem for you. You have contacts with some of your hometown friends, and most importantly, you don’t mind doing things alone; you can go to the cinema when you want, you can pick whatever restaurant you like, you can take a walk, or stay at home.

You’ve always been comfortable in your bubble, and you’d like to keep it that way, but life has strange plans.

“Damn, always on a rush.” You recognize Haechan’s voice, but you don’t bother turning around because you’re sure he’s not addressing you. You think it’s weird he’s sitting next to you, but you blink the surprise away and grab your tablet from your bag. “Whoever put music theory at 8:30 in the morning on a Monday needs to go to jail.”

You chuckle at his comment, subtly rolling your eyes before opening the note app to go where you left it in the previous lesson.

“You write a lot.” This time you’re quite sure he’s talking to you, so your neck turns to look at him and you find him closer than you’d like him to be.

“I annotate, it’s just the essentials.”

He scans the notes quickly before scoffing. “The essentials? I don’t write as half as that.”

“Well, I think this is essential, but we all work differently,” while you’re answering him, you don’t even notice that his friend is not beside him, and you get lost in him for a second, mostly in the scent that’s filling your nostrils now that his brown jacket is so close to you.

“The professor talks too fast, how the fu— how do you get everything?” He stops himself from cursing and backs away, finally making you breathe some air that is not filled with his intoxicating perfume.

“I rewrite phrases. And, to be sure, I record the lessons, so I can re-listen to them in case something doesn’t make sense when I study them. And then I also re-write the not—”

“You record the lessons?” He almost snarls with his eyes bulging out of his skull as he, once again, stands too close to you.

“Is it illegal?” Your head tilts to the side as genuine curiosity blooms on your face.

“No, it’s… it’s…” he sighs, throwing his head back and cursing something under his breath in a tight dialect you don’t recognize. “I never thought about it.”

“Oh, well, it helps me a lot. Sometimes when I’m too tired to read I just play the lessons and memorize stuff while I do other things,” you smile, moving your hair to one side of your neck before grabbing the pen when the professor walks in. “You should try.”

“Oh, you can be sure I will.”

Haechan can’t be so stupid. He can’t believe he can be so stupid. Why didn’t he ever, ever, think about that? That’s a smart idea, better than crying and cursing when he tries to understand what he wrote down on paper when he revisits the notes, or asking Mark if he wrote some phrases he had marked down with several question marks or dots to fill —dots that he never fills.

But he’s still sure he can’t be a terrible student, he had always been on top of his classes, always aced them and his study method worked… but what if yours worked better? Given the results of the past year, and the start of this one, the answer is clear: yours do work better.

But he doesn’t think that it’s the only reason you are beating him in everything. What if you have other tricks?

Haechan is going to find out.

You always believed your only competition was yourself. You never liked to engage with other people and fight them or fear them. But Haechan had given you no choice.

It was an open threat at you when he purposefully told you a different day to turn in an assignment when you were sick, you had no choice but to fight back.

That was when Haechan truly became your rival. He had always been, you two were always at the top, fighting for the first place and the big prizes, but now it was a matter of pride.

Haechan had officially made it on top of your blacklist, at least he could arrive number one in something, not like there was a big competition to be in there, in fact, you didn’t even have one before he pushed your last nerve.

Fucking it up with you wasn’t Haechan’s plan, he wanted to befriend you and trick you into giving him some magic tricks, but things went… wrong. With Mark by his side, it was impossible to sit next to you. During songwriting you got up and sat on another seat in the middle of the lesson with the excuse of ‘not seeing from afar’, and he couldn’t approach you in any other circumstances. So, when you got sick for three days, he thought he could, for once, steal your spotlight.

He wasn’t sure you were sick, but he was sure enough you weren’t going to miss lessons days to study or work on projects; you never needed extra time, unfortunately, he knew it well. So the only thing that could lock you in your place was an illness of some kind. He did feel bad when you came back four days later and asked him if you missed something, he could see you still weren’t at your best, and he could’ve tried his luck by telling you the truth, hoping that the precarious state you were in was going to make you come up with a terrible essay on an instrument of the 18th century, but his eagerness got the best of him, and he lied.

So he had officially screwed his plan of getting closer to you.

“You are an asshole,” you scream, slamming the books in front of him on the table in the garden, not caring about his friends staring at you in shock. “And don’t look at me with that face of ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ because you know what I’m referring to.”

“I don’t, though…” he whispers, trying to keep a distance between you because you look scary —half bent on the table, furrowed forehead, pointing finger— and he thinks you are very motivated to reach over his neckline and strangle him.

You roll your eyes, groaning in annoyance. “You told me Professor Kim left an essay for Monday, I thought I could use the weekend to do an amazing job and he called me to his office because I was three days late.”

Haechan gulps, and the table goes silent, you feel his friends’ gazes on you but they are the last thing in your mind.

“Mind to explain?”

“I… I didn’t do it on purpose?”

“You have to ask me if you are an asshole because your mother didn’t put a brain in your skull?”

“Hey, take it back!” He warns with a pointing finger, glaring at you.

“No,” you retort, crossing your arms on your chest and standing up straight. “You sabotaged me.”

“You are making things up. Maybe you should be in the creative writing major,” Haechan taunts, a shit-eating grin on his face.

You gasp offended, clenching your fists to avoid wrapping your hands around his neck. “You — you — ugh,” you huff. “This paper was graded! And you knew it, it’s part of the mid-course work he adds to our final grade. Why would you do that to me?”

“You think I did that on purpose?”

“When did you turn it in?” You ask and when his eyes widen you scream at his face. “See! You turned it on time. I fucking hate you!”

“I didn’t answer,” he tries to defend, a challenging edge in his voice, getting to your nerves more than the look on his face.

“First of all, I can see it in your face. You’re trying to look surprised and even scared, but you’re having the time of your life because, guess what, you can’t surpass me if you don’t play your stupid games.”

He snorts offended, gulping before leaning closer. “You think I can’t beat you?”

“It’s not what I think, it’s what the rankings say, it’s what our professors say, and it’s what all the external opportunities I’ve got say. But if you want to try to prove facts wrong, bring it on,” you shrug, grabbing your things and taking a step back. “No more dirty games from now on, Lee Donghyuck. Trust me, you don’t want me to start playing them too, you might not even see the top three if I do.”

The months to come are fire. You should keep minding your business but as soon as he opens his mouth in class you can’t press your lips together and fake it. You try, every time, but you fail.

“I just mean that the melody is what attracts people,” he argues during a discussion in the songwriting class.

You huff, shaking your head. “People care about the lyrics more.”

He scoffs loudly and the professor glares at him for the reaction but he still goes on. “People won’t listen to a song if the production sucks.”

You turn around, eyebrows pressed in a furrow. “And they won’t listen to a song if the lyrics are dumb, or tell a bad message.”

“Really? Catchy pop music is a thing even if you want so badly to maintain the purity of the art of music with only lyrical depth.”

“I love catchy pop songs, but there’s something objective in music and something subjective, if you paid attention to any of our classes you should know, right?”

The class holds back a laugh and the professor coughs, making you utter an apologize, more addressed to her than your enemy.

“Oh, trust me, I paid attention to class,” he retorts, mockingly smiling at you. “And we’re not talking about the quality but the appeal. People remember the rhythm of the song or the tune more than they remember the words.”

“And words can hold so much meaning for someone they will stick to them forever. Also, lyrics can have different interpretations and if you’re a good writer you can make one song fit for more occasions.”

“That’s dumb,” he says, looking at you up and down after scoffing. “Notes can transfer different emotions, what you said just doesn’t make sense, please.”

“Can we tone it down?” Professor Park warns, glaring at the both of you.

You nod and mutter another apology before speaking up again, “I believe that a good melody can easily attract people at first listen, but if we talk about the long run, a memorable song also needs good lyrics. And Mariah Carey herself said how being a songwriter makes your career last more, so I think it’s telling coming from one of the best voices ever.”

“I think you both make a great point,” the professor cuts the conversation off before you can jump at each other’s throat again. “It would be interesting to make a deeper analysis and maybe break down songs and compare data over time. If it was possible to keep the decorum…” she whispers the last word and you want to disappear because you hate the scene you gave. “But we need to move on with our lesson, so, as I was saying…”

Out of all the heated discussions you had in class, the one about the importance of production and lyrics, led to your worst nightmare, working on a project with him. Professor Park was so nice to pair you together because she wanted to see how your different points of view would’ve worked in the song you had to write and produce and even if you smiled and said, ‘it will be really motivating,’ to avoid yelling at her face, now you want to die.

You’re sure the first two knocks on the door don’t even reach the other side; your hits are too weak and the small apartment in that complex is too loud for anyone to hear. Is this the environment you have to work in today?

You roll your eyes and knock again, this time making sure it’s impossible for them not to hear you. You wait there only for a few seconds and then the door opens, revealing a boy your age you can’t remember.

“Oh, hi,” he cheers, big toothy smile beaming at you. “You must be here for Hyuck, right?”

You hum, nodding and murmuring, “Yes, I have to work on a project with Haechan.”

“Come in.”

You step inside the house and look around briefly before your eyes fall on the table in the small living room; there are books everywhere, headphones on the ground, boxes of food and empty water bottles, and most importantly talks too loud for four boys that were supposedly studying.

“Mark, can you lower the music?”

“Music is what I’m studying, I can’t,” the man you know well replies. “Why don’t you keep your pencil close to you? Jesus, there’s graphite everywhere.”

“You’re so annoying, I can’t go in my room, Jeno still didn’t take down the light boxes,” the brown-haired replies, sending a death glare to the boy at his side who quickly replies to his defence.

“Hey, I finished shooting half an hour ago and now I have an essay to write, leave me alone.”

“They’re entertaining, aren’t they?” Haechan’s voice brings you out of the haze of his bickering friends, their conversation fades in the background while your anger level rises just seeing his face when you turn around.

“Surely more entertaining than you,” you retort before taking a step forward, pretending to know where to go in that house.

Haechan rolls his eyes, thanking his friend who opened the door —Jaemin— and coming next to you. “You don’t know where my room is yet, so if you’d like to follow me.”

You trail behind him, waving at the men around the table but it’s clear that none of them even noticed your presence. Luckily for you, Donghyuck’s room is at the end of the corridor and the mess that goes down in the other room is not hearable enough to make your day a living hell.

“So, do you have anything in mind?” He asks after you sit at one of the chairs at his desk.

You shake your head, fixing your skirt and pulling out some things you might need from your bag. “Wanted to hear from you first. Since the melody is so crucial, we should start from that,” you mock in a fake-sweet tone, and you feel his glare on your skin.

“You truly are a pain in the ass, you know?” He scoffs, moving his hair out of his face, gaze fixed on you.

“And for what? Because I agreed with your theory?”

“If you have a melody in mind it’s easier to make the words flow.”

“If the melody has nothing to do with the idea, you only have some notes and not a song.”

Now that there aren’t rows of chairs dividing you, the heated argument has led you face to face, literally. And you feel your heart pound in your chest from the anger and, also because it’s weird to be this close to a stranger you can’t stand.

“Okay, Miss Taylor Swift, why don’t you enlighten me and show me what you got?”

You glare at him but he’s unfazed, holding the eye contact proudly. “My lyrics will be better than your production.”

“And are those lyrics in the room with us?”

“God,” you groan, throwing your hands in the air and your head back. “You drive me insane.”

“And you are pretentious and still never prove all the things that that little, bratty, annoying mouth of yours says.”

Deep creases show on your forehead, and you have to turn around because if you see his face for a second more you will slap him. But you want this project done, you have four weeks to turn it in, but you want this torture to be over as soon as possible, so you know you have to put the pettiness aside.

“If we want a great result and good grades, we need good lyrics and a good melody,” you say, calmly facing him again, slowly watching as his face softens. “My words and your production. I don’t care what comes to us first, if you think it can be useful, we could even brainstorm some tunes and catchphrases and then build it around it.”

“Now you’re making some sense,” he exclaims, smiling widely before patting the top of your head. “So that head is not empty.”

“Oh, seriously? I’m trying to have a truce, and you fuck it all up again?”

“No, sorry, I just think you’re really smart when it comes to college but a bit annoying when it comes to life.”

“You’re just mad you can’t beat me.”

“I can,” he retorts smugly.

“Then why don’t you do it?” You tease, cocking your head to the side.

Haechan scoffs, lips twitching in a quick smirk before he wets them. “I didn’t yet, but are you so sure I won’t?” He whispers, breath colliding with your lips and nose brushing yours, your brain doesn’t even register his hands on your legs right away, only when his fingers caress your bare skin right above the hem you wake up from the haze of having him so close.

“Time will — time will prove us,” you say, turning to the desk and scratching your neck. “Time will tell us, not prove us.”

Haechan snickers, moving closer to see on your tablet where you opened the notes, and smiles smugly. He thinks he found a way to distract you.

The project isn’t done in the first week, and to put a cherry on top, Professor Park decides to make it the big project for the end of the class, adding a cover for the single, a plan to sponsor it, and, if someone feels brave enough, even to record it. Even if you wanted to, a thing this big, and now with so much weight on the final grade, can’t be done in one week.

Yet, you think you’ll have to deal with Haechan only on your weekly meet-ups for that project and during lessons, you never imagined you would have to deal with him even during your library study on Wednesday.

“Why are you studying in the middle of the week?”

“You know, if I had to replicate a sound every time we start a conversation it would be ‘and now, I just want to sit back and relax and enjoy my evening, when all of a sudden I hear this agitating grating voice,’ and that is the sound that plays in my mind, actually.”

“Grating? Really?”

“Well, it’s the quote but it fits,” you reply sternly, bringing your attention back to the book. “Also, the question is not, why am I studying, but why aren’t you? How will you beat me if you don’t?” You wink, laughing under your breath. You don’t even need to see his reaction; you know his jaw tenses and his nostrils flare for a brief second every time you tease him.

You hear the chair in front of you scratch on the floor, and deeply hope he’s not sitting on it. But Haechan is sitting on it, staring at you as if he could steal the information from your brain and pass it to his.

“I am studying.”

“No, you’re not,” you reply, eyes widening when he rips a page from your notebook and a pen from your case. “So, what have you learned since now?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes to the sky and instead run a hand on your face while sighing deeply. There’s just no way to get rid of him, right?

“You don’t even know what I’m studying.”

“Sound design,” he replies promptly, and you look down to see if he could’ve gotten a grasp from your books but there’s a paper on it and there’s not much written on it. Haechan smiles and moves to the chair next to you. “It’s because I started it too, there are too many notions, it would be a suicide to wait for the finals.”

“Oh, so you do something else other than think about me,” you tease, nudging him with your leg.

“Hey! I don’t think about you,” he replies firmly, frowning.

“Sure,” you huff, waving him off. “So, what do you know?”

“Well, all the basis we learnt last year, so the definition of sound, the path it follows, how it’s perceived based on the medium and how fast it travels through them, slowest through gases, faster through liquids, and fastest through solids, and that temperature effects it as well.”

You smile, content with the reply but you want to test him more. “What about the five characteristics of sound?”

“You think that’s a difficult one?” He asks, almost disappointed at the easiness of your question.

“Well, if you want to impress me so bad, I could ask you to list all the types of compressors?”

“You already know that?” He questions, quirking a brow, trying to think why he doesn’t remember them. “Wait, we didn’t do that in class.”

You laugh. “See, you’re witty. No, we haven’t done that yet, but since you love producing so much, I thought you knew it as personal knowledge.”

“Why do you talk as if you don’t want to do the same job as mine?” There’s a bit of annoyance in his tone, but there’s genuine curiosity in his eyes.

You shrug, pressing your lips together before diverting your gaze.

Haechan gasps. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what you want to do, yet, because I won’t believe it.”

“It’s not that I don’t know,” you reply, a low huff leaving your lips. “I’d like to try different things out, being a PR manager sounds interesting too. And I’m also pretty good at dancing, so that could be a career path.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t start practical courses, I would love to see you dance.”

“Yeah, sure, so you can mock me some more,” you groan.

He shakes his head. “No, you wouldn’t enroll in a program if you weren’t absolutely perfect at it, so I can’t come at your skills.”

“You’re so kind, I think I might love you,” you mock, moving closer to him and pouting before pushing him away with a light push on his chest and focusing on your papers again.

“And by the way, I know the characteristics of sound,” he says, right next to your face.

You smile and think to yourself that this might be fun. “Good, go on and tell me.”

You don’t get why Haechan’s roommate bicker so much. Not that you could lecture them when, as soon as you walk inside his room, your talks won’t be much different than theirs (worse, probably). But you think you and Haechan, at least, have a reason to fight so much. His roommates are… weird. They are close. They all are, in an annoying way almost, always moving in packs and breaking their back to meet up even if their institutes are scattered around in the Academy. Yet, they get heated pretty easily when they sit in the living room, and you can only blame it on stress as you chuckle, standing against the countertop with a glass of water in hand.

“Donghyuck left you all alone?” Jeno enters the kitchen, distracting you from Renjun screaming at his painting and Mark cursing while he tries to come up with a melody for a small assignment you decided to not worry about —you have Haechan to worry about now.

“Yep, told me to be here at 2 pm just to be in the shower instead,” you reply with a tight smile on your face that makes him laugh and scroll the black hair out of his face.

“My fault,” he explains while pouring himself a glass. “I convinced him to stay at the basketball field when we finished and he couldn’t meet up with you smelling like rotten leftovers forgotten under the august sun.”

“Creative writing?” You ask after you chuckle at his description.

“Nope, photography, Renjun’s worst nightmare.”

You laugh. “It’s because you leave all those big things around his room, right?”

“Our room,” he says, empathising on the first word.

“Okay, communism king, your room but I don’t think your comrade is happy about it.”

Jeno laughs, and hums before gulping down a sip of water. “I’m not rich yet to afford a studio so he’ll have to deal with his bestie working, sweating, and crying his way to the top.”

“You could’ve been a nepo baby and have everything handed to you.”

“Sucks not to be one. I wouldn’t even bother being in Uni, just leaving my best life with my camera and daddy’s money.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Haechan says entering the kitchen, hair still damp and casual housewear on.

“None of your business,” you reply, placing the glass in the sink and walking to the door. “Come on, we have a song to create. It could be our first Billboard number one.”

Haechan sighs, snatching the bottle of water from Jeno’s hand, briefly confused at his grinning face, and then follows you quickly.

“Are you trying to hit on my friends?” He asks, closing the door behind.

“Would you mind?”

“Yes, I’d hate having to deal with you in our group hangouts.”

“You already deal with me. More than you should since you always come to me even when we could not be together,” you say, tilting your head to the side, and sitting on your assigned chair. “Are you perhaps jealous? Do you want me all to yourself?”

“Nah, you can go and fuck all of them right no—”

“Okay,” you don’t even let him finish and you’re at the door, but he springs after you and stops you.

“What are you doing? I was kidding!”

“Why? Since when you can tell me what to do?”

Haechan groans and drags you back to your place, but he doesn’t sit just yet, he’s bent over to be close to you. “I need you here with me to work on this goddam song, and then you can go and have a gangbang in the living room, I don’t care.”

“You’d be mad you won’t be part of it,” you joke, having the time of your life watching his pissed-off expression as he stomps loudly back at his place. “Accept that you will never win with me, and maybe you won’t be so triggered every time we talk.”

“Shit, it’s late,” you murmur, lifting your head from the lyrics you’re trying to write down. Now you got the theme —it’s a love song that you hope won’t turn lame— and even a faint idea of a tune, and while Haechan tried to get inspired by other songs and tried instruments he wants to add to the track, you worked on the words.

“Don’t you think we’re trying too hard?” He whispers, placing the guitar on his bed before standing up and stretching.

“What do you mean?” You ask, lifting your neck so you can look at him after you turn around on the rotating chair.

“Music should come to you, it should be… spontaneous.”

You’d want to roll your eyes, mostly for the spontaneous part, but he’s right. Most artists don’t think about the songs they make, the song comes to their mind when they’re not thinking about it.

“Yes, but do you think we’re doing such a shitty job with this?”

He shakes his head, walking closer to you. “Not totally, I just think that if we want to be on top, we have to work around it differently.”

You gulp when he hovers over you and grips the side of the chair tightly. “Like?”

“We should… relax. Take our mind off of it and just wait for it to come,” he glances at the desk, studying the crumpled tries you gave up on and the only three phrases you were happy with written on the tablet. “We should get inspired,” he whispers, and you’re once again so focused on his face that you don’t feel his hand on your thigh, under the long black skirt you’re wearing, it surely must’ve been on you for a while if the fabric was already crumpled up and his fingers teased the hem of your panties between your hips and stomach.

“Is — is this how you inspire people?” You ask, glancing down with a rising chest but for some reason not pulling away.

“Don’t know, I’ve never done it before,” he chuckles, slowly moving closer to your core, observing the small signs of your body. “Should we see if it works?”

You hate him. You should be working on that lyric for the last half hour you have left. You hate him. He’s making it impossible for you to stick to your ‘minding my business’ plan that had worked through all your school years. You hate him, you do, and yet you nod, humming a feeble ‘yes,’ in response.

“Good,” rolls out of his lips, and it sounds so different from his usual tone, you can’t help but feel hot.

Your nails sink in the chair when his fingers slip right against your clit after he had your consent and starts teasing it.

“So, it’s a love song…” he says, and you frown, heart pumping louder as for a second you think he led you on and you looked like a pathetic horny loser, but his hand is still playing with your pussy and his face is still close to yours. “Chose that because you have somebody in mind?”

“We literally picked it for a reason last week, you —”

“God,” he shushes you up, pushing the panties to the side and teasing your entrance, it’s already damp, but not enough how he wants it. “Can you stop being so rational for once? I know why we picked it; remember I’m trying to inspire you.”

“Wait, you really think some fingering can inspire me to write a love so—” your words shut down when he places a hand on your mouth, eyes widening but pussy leaking an embarrassing amount of cum.

He quirks a brow in surprise and, shortly after, a smug smirk curls his lips. “Oh, so you’re into that?”

You can’t reply, but even if you could’ve, you’re not sure you would’ve said anything.

“So, anybody in mind?”

You shake your head. Your love life has been anything but exciting, and after a few tries, you were sure it wasn’t what you needed to focus on, especially because nobody sparked your interest. Nobody was worth moving your focus from your studies.

“Great, so I guess that’ll have to be me.”

“What?” You mutter muffled, closing your legs and moving on the chair.

Haechan rolls his eyes in his skull, keeping you in place. “Oh, come on, you can fake it for a few minutes. Don’t act disgusted, I’m knuckle-deep inside you,” he says.

“Not yet.”

“I’m knuckle-deep inside you,” he retorts after he pushes into you with two fingers, staring right into your eyes.

You bite back a moan and a curse under your breath. “Fine, but I don’t want to think,” you say. “Just, prove it to me. If you’re good, I’ll be inspired and I’ll come up with the lyrics, if you suck, we’ll go back to our original method.”

Haechan hates that he constantly has to prove things to you, and he hates even more that he does it, almost as if he’s your dog and he has to follow your orders while you keep him on a leash. But if this will work to come up with a great song, and in his outer-songwriting-course-plan to distract you, he won’t complain.

Honestly, he couldn’t complain even if it only meant to finger you. He might want to fight you every time he sees your face but, damn, what a face.

“Shit,” you moan. You don’t want to give him too much satisfaction, but he knows what he’s doing and it’s been way too long since someone touched you like that. Damn, even since you touched yourself like that. Maybe the whole ‘staring at your goals’ was taking some funny things away from you.

“Do you want to turn the song into a Hozier song?”

You huff, you just asked him one thing and his mouth is running again doing the opposite. “You wish you were this good to inspire a Hozier type of song.”

“Really?” He taunts, pressing his thumb on your clit, starting to tease the throbbing nub in circles.

“Yes,” your voice trembles, but your face shows confidence.

Haechan snickers, quickening the pace of his fingers, watching you fight against yourself to not show how much you’re loving it. “One second of this mouth on your pussy and I’d make you change your mind,” he whispers right against your ears, hot breath fanning your skin. “It’s a shame you don’t deserve it.”

You groan, head rolling back in disappointment, and that makes him laugh.

“You have to think twice before running that mouth, babe. Especially with me.”

“Never,” you talk back, opening your eyes and regretting as soon as they meet his. His gaze is too intense, and your brain is too far gone to keep it up.

Haechan only grins, enjoying your wrecked face and the sounds your pussy is making as his fingers keep working on you. You might try to deny him, but your body is speaking to him, and deeply so are you. It’s in your eyes, and your lips trembling, and in the beautiful moans that are rolling out of your tongue.

“Are you close, brat?”

You don’t have it in you to complain, or retort, the orgasm is right around the corner and you fear he would ruin the experience if you said something out of line.

“Answer me,” he orders, lightly slapping your thigh.

“Yes,” you breathe out, biting your lower lip to prevent the whole house from hearing you.

“Good,” he replies, smiling proudly and starting to move faster in and out of you, hitting your sweet spot every time he reaches the base, and torturing your clit with his thumb. And when it’s too much for you, you come. Body trembling against the chair, and legs pushing up as the shocks of pleasure run through you.

“Acid when you talk but sweet to taste,” he hums after pulling out his fingers from his mouth and you only glare at him as you quickly try to get yourself together again.

“It’s late,” he says, staring at the clock. “Go home and let me know if this was useful somehow. And not by replaying it in your mind at night wishing I was there with you.” He winks and you slap his shoulder hard. “What the hell!”

“I won’t come up with anything on purpose, and I swear if you keep being so annoying, I’ll be terrible at this.”

“You would never, this makes up like 80% of our final grade.” He challenges you with a glare.

“If I go down, you go down with me,” you retort, face to face, fiercely looking into his eyes.

“It’s not smart of you.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” you smile sweetly before it drops from your face. “It’s a threat.”

It’s not like you’re trying to avoid him after what happened, but that’s exactly what’s going on. You don’t regret the act per se, you just can’t believe it was so easy for you to agree to do that with him. And you know he will use it against you for eternity.

A very dumb move from your side to give him the possibility to tease you even more and about something you couldn’t defend yourself from.

But if you try your best to change corridors when you see him from afar, walk quickly back to your dorm room, and sit on the opposite side in class (you fail at keeping your mouth quiet, but you need to discuss with him during lessons), it seems like he’s doing everything he can to be on your path.

“I’m starting to believe you’re a stalker,” you huff, clearly scaring him when you stop abruptly in the middle of the library and make him stop in his tracks.

“I’m not.”

You raise a brow, staring at him until he huffs and throws his hands up in the air. “Fine, fine, I was following you but only because I wanted to know what you will study.”

“Why do you care so much about what I study?”

“So I know how to beat you?”

“Isn’t it more exciting if you beat me only using your brain by putting some knowledge in it without seeing my cards?” You say, pushing a finger on his chest and making him walk backwards until his back hits the bookshelf behind him.

“I think sneaky games are funnier, though,” he whispers, hand moving to rest on your side. “Especially with you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and taking a step back, freeing yourself from his hold. “The games you’re playing are not sneaky. Why are you always in my business?”

He shrugs. “Why not? So, what are we studying today?”

“We are not studying together.”

“Why? Isn’t it funny? The same study method, same hours, but one of us will be better than the other. That’s a truly equal comparison.”

You run a hand on your face and keep walking to find what you need. “If you didn’t distract me every two seconds, I would’ve already been like five pages into my studying session.”

“Oh, please, you are wondering around the library anyway. I’m just keeping you company.” His body follows yours like a shadow, his heat radiating so close to your skin that you think you might go insane.

“I don’t want your company,” you say, moving your eyes swiftly over the books in front of you as you try to find what you are looking for in the sociology section. When you finally find it, reminding yourself you have to buy it so you can annotate directly on yours, you walk back to your table, but Haechan is still beside you like a puppy on a string. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I could, and I’d want to, but I can’t,” he says, sitting at your side, smiling widely when you glare at him.

“This is a useless lesson for you,” you try to dismiss him.

“Is it? Because we have the same ones.”

“Jesus, okay, fine,” you give up, throwing your head back and raising your voice enough to make some heads turn in your direction. His biggest talent is to exasperate you. “But we give ourselves a timing, and then when we’re done, we’ll have to answer five questions.”

“And who answers to them all?” He asks, there’s a taunting edge in his voice, and a grin on his face.

“Is the best,” you reply as if it’s obvious.

“Yeah, but there should be a prize.”

“Being better than you is the prize.”

Haechan scoffs, and he hates to admit in his mind that he finds your snarky remarks so fucking hot, if you weren’t in a public library and if his job on earth wasn’t to detest you, he would’ve already had you bent on the table.

“I love how you’re always so sure of being better than me.”

You snicker and send him a flying kiss. “Honey, I am better than you.”

“Wait, I just left out a detail!” You almost scream when you compare your answers for the nth time because you can’t believe he has done slightly better than you.

“That detail is important,” Haechan replies unfazed by your indignation.

“No, it’s not. We would have the same score if this was graded,” you insist, feeling more angered than you should. It’s nothing serious, it shouldn’t be serious, but with him, there’s your pride on the line.

“But this is between me and you, so I win. Also, my phrasing in the second answer is better than yours.”

“Shut up, it’s not.”

“It is, and you just have to admit you lost,” he insists, leaning over, staring at you with a challenging raised brow.

You swallow, eyebrows furrowing, and then you sigh. “Your advantage is minimal. And you only won a battle, because I’m winning a war.”

“Fine, Napoleon, I still won and you’re coming to my place even Saturday so we can do this some more.”

“Hey, Napoleon sucked! He lost the most important battles, the only ones he should’ve won.”

“That’s why I called you that,” he winks, clicking his tongue mockingly.

“Oh, you think you will win the war? You’re wrong, honey, Waterloo is yours.”

Haechan laughs, standing up after putting his things in his bag. “I’m waiting for you on Saturday…” he says and before you can complain he starts singing, “Waterloo, I was defeated, you won the war…”

“Oh, shut up!” You say, hitting his arm as you push him away, but he giggles and walks away continuing with the tune.

“Waterloo, promise to love you forevermore. Waterloo, couldn’t escape if I wanted to…”

And you think that if only he didn’t try to sabotage your final grades in Music History, you might even find him funny.

Haechan hates you.

If he was sure he didn’t before, he is sure that he does now.

He can’t wrap his head around the fact that you, Miss zero social skills, and negative 100 friends, can be so good at debating. On every fucking topic. You’re well-spoken, witty, smart, somehow it looks like you know everything about everything. And even when you don’t know (and you always specify it — which he shouldn’t find so hot, but he does) you always come up with perfectly thought theories and analyses coming from the small knowledge you have on the topic. The thing he also hates is that you never sound like you’re showing off your skills, it’s just really nice to listen to you and —when he’s not the one intervening against you— you’re the sweetest person ever and everybody in every class absolutely adores you.

He wonders if you’re a robot. Maybe you’re some sort of artificial intelligence sent there to conduct studies on humans’ stupidity, and he was unlucky enough to start a fight with you. You just don’t seem real. And he’d love to dig deeper but he doubts he will find anything relevant.

You might be smart, but you also look incredibly boring. He tried to find out if you had interests, or anything that could distract you, but his research led nowhere. The biggest problem is that he hates you, but not to the point that he wants to get you suspended from University, so he has to find another way to make you slip.

Apparently, you’re playing the same game, but even at this, you are thinking faster and smarter.

“Where the fuck are all my anthropology notes?” Haechan mutters as he looks through his library, moving books and notebooks around, thinking he has gone insane. “Mark!” He screams, rushing to the desk to search again but he knows where he left everything; on the second shelf of the small library in his room, on top of the music theory book that hasn’t moved since a week.

“Yes?” His housemate peaks from the door only with his head.

“Did you mistake our notes?”

“What notes?” Mark furrows, backing away from his friend who looks out of his mind.

“The anthropology notes,” he says, voice full of annoyance because, why does Mark never know anything? He’s in the same course and, yet, he’s always somewhere else with his head.

“Man, I don’t even take notes during that lesson.”

“What do you mean you don’t? Ugh, never mind,” Haechan groans, rolling his eyes because he can’t believe he can’t count on anybody. “Have you seen them somewhere?”

“Nope,” Mark replies, entering the room. “I mean, I don’t know what they look like.”

“You know right we have a test tomorrow? The winter break is close, and some courses have it. You are studying, right?”

“Yeah, just not every…thing…”

Haechan rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Why don’t you like it? I mean, I know it’s not really music related but it teaches you so much about other cultures and there’s a whole part about how music is different from culture to culture.”

“Next semester, we didn’t get there, yet. It’s a bunch of complicated terminology and theories I just don’t get,” Mark defends. He never understood why Haechan loved studying so much. He is only there for the music, and a few other theoretical lessons, but some courses don’t make any sense to him.

“So you plan on being terrible tomorrow?”

“I just want a decent result; I don’t strive for perfection like you and your girlie.”

Haechan almost chokes on his saliva. “My girlie? Who’s my girlie?”

“That girl in class you always get into heated arguments with, and then she comes here and I’m pretty sure you make out when no one’s watching,” Mark says so calmly it infuriates Haechan more than if he was teasing him.

“Shut the hell up! She’s my mortal enemy and while you have been paired with Yangyang for the song project, Professor Park thought it was nice putting her and me together.”

“Yeah, you can still make out with your mortal enemy,” he snorts, hitting his friend with a playful elbow hit.

“Mark, shut up and leave, I have to study,” he tries to cut short, pushing his friend out of the room.

“With what notes?”

“I don’t know. I left them on the shelf, and nobody entered my room since Saturday when she — Oh, my God.”

When your name resonates in the empty classroom after you’ve taken the anthropology test, your blood freezes for a second.

“Haechannie,” you cheer cheekily, turning around and pushing your tote bag far up your shoulders.

“Don’t,” he warns, lifting a finger to stop you from starting anything. “I have to talk to you.”

“Sure, the test was easy, right? You might have beaten me this time,” you say but you have to hold back a laugh when you scan his furious, pissed-off expression.

“Yeah, if you studied, it was,” he retorts venously.

“And you surely studied,” you say, faking innocence.

“You can study when you have something to study on,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Yes, and you do,” you still play dumb, but when he calls your surname, you know he’s not joking anymore. “Yes?”

“Do you, perhaps, know where the fuck my notes are?”

You look around, shrugging. “Where are your notes, Donghyuck?”

“I don’t know, I’m asking you for a reason,” he retorts, plastering a fake smile that doesn’t reflect in the darkness of his pupils.

“They might’ve mixed up with my stuff when you invited me over Saturday?” You sing-song, tilting your head to the side and shrugging.

“Might’ve,” he repeats, a hint of bitterness in his tone. “It was just a coincidence.”

You shrug again, pushing your lower lip in a pout. “Sometimes… things happen.”

“And if it wasn’t on purpose, why couldn’t you just text me?”

“Because I didn’t notice,” you reply innocently, batting your lashes, knowing it will get on his nerves even more.

He groans, closing his eyes to calm himself down before he speaks again, “then how do you know?”

“Don’t know, just making assumptions,” you say. “It turns out I’m really good at it.”

“I swear, I — I want to… I want to —”

“To what? Choke me because I got my revenge? Oh, it turns out it’s really not that funny when someone plays with you?” You mock, and in doing so you get closer to him.

“Goddamn,” he groans before your back meets the hard wall of the room and his lips meet yours in a heated kiss, his hands on your body and yours limp at your side as you’re too shocked to react. “I want to — I want to kill you, actually.”

You smirk, chuckling straight at his face. “Filled the space with the wrong letter, ‘cause you’re kissing me.”

“Maybe my kiss is lethal, maybe there’s poison on my lips.”

“Oh, you’re so romantic you’d die for me?” You coo, placing a hand on your heart.

Haechan groans, throwing his head back. “Why are you always so, so, so, God,” he curses, running his fingers in his hair. “I want my notes back, now.”

“I don’t have them,” you say, grinning because he looks wrecked. You know it wasn’t very morally mature for you, but it was only fair. Also, you know he doesn’t arrive last minute with anything, he had already studied everything and you’re sure he had answered everything on that paper, he just couldn’t revisit.

“My notes back when you pass by for the project or it’s war.”

“It’s already war,” you retort when he walks past you to leave.

Haechan turns around, locking his gaze with yours. “Oh, honey, it can get so much worse than this.”

You felt like testing your luck when his notes weren’t back on his desk, but you had no idea it could get worse than that, until it got.

When he deleted an essay from your computer and you had to remake and finish the work of five days in five hours, so you cancelled a project he was working on for another assignment you had. And then he erased the recording of a course from your phone, so you ripped his notebook in front of his eyes (and his roommates too). The list of petty things is long, and you’re not really proud (you’re sure not even Haechan is) of what you did, especially when things started becoming personal. You two want to destroy each other, but you are honestly just killing yourselves in the meantime.

Your book slams closed so hard that you almost zip your hands in it, and by protecting your fingers you lose track of where you’ve been. “Get lost,” you whisper bitterly as soon as you recognize the hand that did that.

“No thanks,” he replies, sitting next to you.

“I’m trying to read a book in the quiet of the library, so can you leave me alone?”

“It’s a public space, I can sit wherever I want,” he replies, leaning back into the chair, and widening his legs under the table. You know ‘cause you feel his knee push against yours and you have to retract your leg to avoid the contact.

You glare at him, breathing deeply through your nose because you can’t make a scene here. You two almost got kicked out of a class two days ago, and that was humiliating enough. So, you think that ignoring him is the best thing you can do.

“Wow, so you have a bit of self-control and don’t talk back. Never thought I’d see that day,” he replies sarcastically to your silence with an amused grin that curls his lips.

You hold back a scream and huff loudly, “I truly need you to get fucked right now.”

“Nevermind,” he jokes, pulling a tight forced smile and you close the book again, now too annoyed to even focus on the words on the paper. “I came here in peace, by the way.”

“Yeah, your peace is war in my country,” you reply bitterly, trying to shift away but those damn chairs make the loudest sounds at the smallest movements.

“That’s because you’re full of prejudices.”

You inhale deeply, rubbing your temple to soothe the headache you know is about to arrive. “Haechan, tell me what you want and then leave me alone.”

He smiles, happy you are finally willing to listen, before he clears his throat. “Okay so, I have to say that some of this is funny. I mean, only the debates and these random talks, but I’m not the biggest fan of all the other stuff we’re doing, so why don’t we bring it back?”

“Bring it back? As in?” You question, raising a brow in confusion.

“I liked it better when we would just compete without tearing ourselves down. If you cancel, ruin, or save one of my projects with the word boobs in it before sending it to the professor another time, I will go insane.”

You hold back a chuckle. You have to admit it was your lowest move, but it was quite funny when Professor Choi had a whole talk in class about being careful before sending out finished projects and exposed him in front of the class.

“No, it wasn’t funny,” he mutters sternly, watching you fight with all the muscles of your face to don’t break into a laugh.

“No, sorry, it was,” you defend, voice trembling, threatening a chuckle to come out. “Like Iloveboobsdemo1 is the best thing I’ve ever come up with. That could be the title of our song.”

“If you want to get expelled from all the academies in the world that would be a perfect idea,” he says, trying to be serious because seriously it wasn’t funny, but when you stare into each other’s eyes for too long none of you two can hold back the laughter anymore. “Okay, fine. It was funny, but I don’t want that to happen again.”

“So? Do you give up?” You taunt, tilting your head after placing it on your palms.

“I’m not giving up, we are changing strategies of our combat.”

“Oh, okay. You will lose anyway in the end, so if this can be more beneficial for me in the meantime, it’s fine.”

He sighs, rubbing his temples, and you chuckle. “Don’t laugh,” he whispers distraught. “I… could you sometimes at least pretend to give me some kind of chance of winning with you and not feeling like you’ll always have the last laugh?”

“I just replied.”

“No, a reply would’ve been ‘Yes, Haechan, don’t worry, we can change it.”

“Too wordy,” you comment, waving him off with a movement of hand.

“You said like ten words more,” he replies, voice breaking in his throat in a whine, but you decide to act as if you don’t notice.

“It still flowed better. See, that’s why the lyrics are in my hands. You’re really not good with words.”

“You keep doing that,” he groans, slamming a hand on the table, attracting some curious eyes on you before you glare them away. “But it’s fine, okay, so… no more dirty games? No more sabotaging?”

“Yes, no more. Well, not like this, but we can still play a bit, right?” You ask, retracting your hand right when you’re about to hold his to seal the deal.

“Yes, but nothing weird, or you know what I mean.”

You hum, reaching out again and shaking his hand. “It’s a deal, then?”

“It’s a deal.”

The deal somehow turns into Haechan always being next to you. He’s like a shadow, sitting next to you in class, studying with you in the library, and so on. You don’t mind him when he minds his business, but he rarely does. Especially during lessons when you need to focus on what the professors are saying.

You roll your eyes when Haechan sneaks a paper next to your notebook and you read ‘how would a dog wear pants’ with two badly drawn different options on it.

“Does it look like the right moment?” You whisper under your breath, side-eyeing him, and trying to keep your focus on the lesson. You see him nod and decide to mark the second option, thinking that he’d be happy with it, but he has the urge to hear a whole dissertation on something that will never happen, right now.

“Why?” He asks as if you’re not in the middle of a lecture.

“Not now.”

“But this lesson is boring,” he whines, poking your side with his elbow.

You huff, covering it with a cough when you realize it is too loud, and then take a sip from your bottle of water.

“You didn’t answer,” Haechan insists, this time poking your arm with the cap of the pencil.

“I picked one,” you mutter, pointing at the paper with your head.

“Elaborate and change my mind.”

“You think it’s the first one?” You say in disbelief, the utter shock causing the tone of your voice to be louder than you expected.

“Any problems there?” The Professor asks, and you feel your blood freeze.

“Mh, no, nothing, my pen has no more ink, I was asking for another one,” you lie, thanking God you two are sitting far in the back of the class and the Professor can’t hear and can’t see that your pen isn’t dead at all. So, with a suspicious nod, the middle-aged man goes on with the lecture while Haechan giggles beside you.

You glare at him, and he shrugs raising his hands. “If you kept quiet, it wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you let me concentrate on the lesson instead of asking dumb questions, it wouldn’t have happened,” you retort, and he laughs under his breath again, but doesn’t ask more questions. He still ruins your notes with ugly flowers and other drabbles and you let him be because at least he’s being silent and paying attention.

“So, you really are giving up,” you say when the bell rings and the class starts emptying.

“What makes you think that?” He asks, putting his things in his bag, just like you.

“You didn’t write anything down.”

Haechan shrugs. “Why would I? I have your notes.”

“No, you don’t,” you say but before you can realize he rips the notebook from your hands and snaps a picture of the two pages you wrote. “Hey! That’s not fair. That’s my work.”

“Your amazing summarizing skills and my artistic skills. I don’t gift beautiful sunflowers to just anybody.”

“Beautiful sunflowers?” You snicker, starting to walk down the stairs, pushing the notebook into your bag as Haechan follows at your side. “If Renjun saw them he would have a heart attack.”

“Can’t compare Vang Gogh to Picasso.”

“Keep Picasso out of your mouth,” you say threateningly.

“Still, aren’t you happy you will think of me while studying?” He bats his lashes, and you hold back an entertained grin.

“Can’t wait to go through the absolute most painful ulcers every time I glance down on those things.”

He gasps offended, bringing a hand on his chest. “See, this is what happens when you spend all your days on socials and your brain doesn’t know how to appreciate real art anymore.”

“You are so annoying, and distracting. Next time if you sit next to me, I’ll push you off the chair,” you warn, and only when a colder blow of wind hits you, you realize you’re walking back to your places together.

“Right!” He says and you think it’s the good time he leaves you alone, but no, he’s not done. “You didn’t explain why the dog would wear it only on its hind legs.”

“Is it really that serious? Why do you want to know so badly?”

“It’s funny. I’m sick and tired of hearing you only discuss music, sociology, and the media and other stuff.”

You sigh. But you still have a bit to walk, so you might as well have to deal with him and his hypothesis about dogs. “Because pants have to cover your lower body, so legs, and ass and everything else. If you wear them like the first option, half of the ass is out. And also, the back limbs correspond to our legs, we’re divided in half horizontally, not vertically.”

He doesn’t reply right away, processing your answer. And you think you broke him.

“Oh!” You exclaim. “Zootopia, animals wear clothes like the second picture.”

“Really? You had a whole statement that made perfect sense and then you added a cartoon to your thesis?”

“But it still makes sense,” you argue back. “And, most importantly, I made you agree with me,” you wink before stopping when you reach your complex.

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” he gives up before looking behind you. “You live here?”

You nod, searching for the keys in the tote bag, and you think it’s time to stop pretending that’s Mary Poppins’ bag and throw away some useless stuff.

“I thought there were only rooms here,” he states, looking at the big complex a few meters away from the university.

“There are common dormitories, and then there are some one-room flats. I got one with a scholarship when I graduated. It’s less expensive than an apartment and I get a small place all to myself.”

“Oh,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why he thought you had roommates. “So, you’re alone, alone?”

“No, you can’t come in,” you say.

“I didn’t ask that,” he frowns, offended you would even imply that. “I thought you… well, oh, never mind.”

“Yes, I’m alone, so I can do whatever the hell I want. If I want to cook, I cook. If I want to stay up all night to study, I do that. If I want to dry the clothes in the middle of the living room, that is also the bedroom and the kitchen, I do that.”

“Is it really that small?”

“It’s decent, I guess. It’s spacious enough to live in it comfortably but not big to the point I have to waste days cleaning it.”

“Maybe we could study there, no loud roommates screaming in the living room.”

“I like the mess of your place, and I’ll be there Friday.”

Haechan rolls his eyes. “Come on, I hate the library. Can’t we for once study at your place?”

“I never invited you to my studying sessions,” you groan.

“But you love it.”

“No.”

“Yes, you have an orgasm every time you know something better than me.”

“Please, shut up,” you wave him off, starting to walk away.

“I don’t care, I’ll be here tomorrow,” he screams when you’re too far, clearly running away from him.

“And I’ll be at the library!”

You never go to the library, to be honest, you were just unlucky enough that the washing machine thought it was the right moment to leak all over the floor and Haechan found you at home with your coat on the couch, the tote bag next to the door and your jeans half soaked as you tried to fix the mess on the pavement.

From that moment, your meet-ups become more and more periodic, whether it’s at your place, his or at the library. You hate to admit it, but the competition drives you forward, and you love seeing his face every time you defeat him somehow.

“Are you busy this Saturday?” He asks while he strums with the guitar to come up with a chord progression for your song.

“Yeah, why?” You reply, poking the cap of the pen to your cheeks, drifting your eyes on him.

“Want to go out with me?”

“What? Saturday is my day to study and do my things like I want to,” you say. It was the only day, along with Sunday, you had to fix all your notes without being wrecked from the lessons of the day, or listen to lessons while cleaning the house, and so on. You tried to squeeze everything there so Sunday could be your free day and you could dedicate it to your hobbies and to write for the magazine you worked for, nothing too serious, just some money to add to the survival costs that your parents would send you, and the monthly entrance you had when you would get called to help a dance studio downtown.

“Great, we’re going out tomorrow.”

You huff, slumping back on the chair. “No, we��re not. I’m busy.”

“You can take one afternoon for me,” he replies, placing the instrument next to him. “Come on, it will be fun.”

“Where would you even take me?”

Haechan smirks. “It’s a surprise.”

When Saturday afternoon arrives, you don’t know how to feel. You spent the whole night trying to find a positive thing about it, and the good thing is that for once you are leaving the house to do something funny —you hoped so— not all by yourself. The bad thing is that the person you are going to do this thing with is Haechan.

You try not to worry about it too much, he’s not that bad when he wants to, and he’s funnier than you’d like to admit, so maybe taking a small break from the obsessive studying and tidying, will do you some good.

When you hear the knocks on the door, you grab your coat and your bag and head to open it.

“Hi,” he says. “Anything to fix before we leave?”

“Don’t say that, they will hear you and break all together.”

Haechan laughs, briefly looking at your body, mostly covered because it’s still cold outside and you have way too many layers on you. “Toy Story for home appliances?”

“Yeah, that would be my life,” you reply, closing the door behind you and walking outside of the complex. “So, where are you taking me?”

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he says. “Don’t expect anything big, I just don’t want to hear you nag about it.”

“Hey, I appreciate almost everything.”

“Yeah, it’s the almost that worries me,” he says. “Hop in the car.”

“You have a car?”

“Yeah, it’s right in front of your eyes,” he answers, gesturing to the space next to you.

You turn around, holding back a laugh when you see the old blue car, it’s surely a Hyundai, you have no idea about the model, but you know for sure it’s falling apart. “This is the car?”

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m poor.”

“It will get us killed,” you say opening the door, letting out a breath of relief when the handle doesn’t stay in your hold.

Haechan rolls his eyes and sits in. “Can you don’t be overdramatic for one second?”

“I’m stating facts. Are the airbags still working? Is the oil level high enough? The battery? And the water for —” Your eyes widen when his lips crash on yours. At first, it’s a harsh attempt to shut you up, but then his lips shily go for more, moving along yours with a small flame of need.

“I won’t kill you, but please shut up,” he begs when he pulls away, sooner than you want to, later than he should’ve.

You gulp, trying to shake the dizziness and the way his kiss made you feel lightweight. You might occasionally still want to wrap your hand around his neck but he’s quite good at being a charmer.

“I’m giving you the privilege to pick the music,” he says once you’re on the open road, the lights of the city shine against the windows and the other cars pass beside you.

“Yeah, can I connect my Spotify to the car? Oh, wait, this model from the future directly brings the singers into your backseats so you can have a live concert,” you joke after seeing the car radio.

“Wanted to take the metro?”

You laugh. “No, I’m just… why did you say that as if I could connect the aux or the Bluetooth? It was funny.”

“Fine, you’re forgiven,” he says. “Just play it through your phone.”

You hum, already deep into the scrolling of your music catalogue. “Can I put my driving playlist?”

“You have a car?”

“No, I have a driving playlist.”

“Why would you have a driving playlist if you don’t have a car?”

“Because right now it comes useful,” you wink, pressing play without waiting for his answer.

Haechan smiles, quickly glancing at you before his attention is fully on the road. “Baekhyun?” He asks with surprise when the second song starts. “You listen to Baekhyun?”

“Everybody should listen to him,” you reply, already getting defensive because his next words could be the last straw of your ‘relationship.’

“Oh God,” he whispers.

“If you tell me you’re a hater I’m jumping out of the running car and changing the trajectory of your life forever,” you warn, turning to the side to have a better view of him.

“Me? A Baekhyun hater? He’s my father! I just can’t believe you have some sort of sense and taste.”

You slap his shoulder, making the both of you break into a light-hearted laugh.

“You scared me for a second,” you say, placing your hand on your beating heart.

“Sorry. So, it turns out we have one thing in common,” he jokes, creases creating at the corner of his eyes as his features soften and a genuine smile blooms on his face.

You shrug. “I mean, we have many things in common, actually. That’s why we get along so badly. Maybe it’s true, opposite attracts and that’s why we don’t attract.”

“I think we do attract… proved it a few times.”

“Once,” you reply immediately.

“Twice, with the kiss…”

“You did that to shut me up.”

“I don’t shut up just…” anybody… “I felt like kissing you.”

You smirk, loving watching him struggle. “Nothing wrong to admit you find me attractive,” you tease.

“Unfortunately, your mouth ruins everything.”

“My mouth is the thing that attracts you the most about me, or else you wouldn’t keep lingering around me like bees on honey.”

“Bees make honey, they’re not attracted to it. Bears are.”

“Yeah, you look like a bear, you know?”

He glares at you, and you laugh. “Bears are cute.”

“And attracted to honey.”

“And do I look like honey?” You ask teasingly. “Wait! You always call me honey!”

“It’s a mockery honey, not a sweet honey. You’re not my honey.”

You think about it. “You’re not my honey… could be a line of our song.”

“No academy talking today. It’s forbidden. You have to forget about uni.”

“Fine, I’ll forget about it just for today.”

The dates with Haechan, you can call them dates, right? Well, anyway, whatever they are, they become more common. At first, you tried to reject his weird, most of the time, last minute, proposal, because they would throw in the air all of your plans, but after a while, you somehow still found a way to go back on track without screwing up your academic goals.

“Why don’t you stay?” Haechan asks. It’s another Friday afternoon, and you two met up to go on with the song’s project. Much to your dismay, you have to admit you are the one who’s holding you two back. It’s like words can’t come out of you, not like you want to, at least. But Haechan’s not mad at you. Actually, you like the atmosphere around you when you lock in his room for those sessions. One time, he even made you try edibles to see if you could come up with something, but you ended up making out on the floor instead, so you stopped going for that path.

“I don’t know,” you say, huffing when you glance at the words in front of you and remind yourself that they don’t make sense. “I was thinking of going home and maybe listening to your tracks and…”

“Come up with something?” He drags the chair closer to you and steals your papers to read them. “It’s not as bad as you made it to be.”

“Yeah, it’s a good song, but it’s basic. And I feel like it’s a bit… cliché.”

“You do know that everything has already been written?” He jokes, but it’s not a teasing remark, it’s the truth, and he’s genuinely trying to lift your spirit.

“I know, but it’s not my style, this is not how I usually write, I —”

“You write?” He stops you and only then you realize what you said. “Like, you have written songs before?”

You nod, shame pervading you when he stares at you with an expression you can’t comprehend. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

“No, I just thought you preferred lyrics over production, but I had no idea you were a lyricist.”

“Now, lyricist… I try, sometimes…”

Haechan smirks, poking your tummy making you cover it with your arms. “So there is something you’re insecure about.”

“Oh, I knew you were going to have a ball about this,” you groan, rolling your head back.

“No, hey, it’s just… I’ve never seen you like this about something you do. You are confident, usually,” he explains with no hint of mockery in his voice.

You sigh, looking at your feet tapping the ground and then look back at him. “It’s just… very personal,” you confess. “I think it’s clear I don’t have lots of friends. I used to, back at home, but here I’m alone. But even back then I’ve always felt like there was something I couldn’t completely let out. That’s why I love dancing, I can express myself in a different way, but I found out it still wasn’t enough and when I started playing the piano again I… started writing. It started almost as a joke, and it was a cheesy break-up song when my ex cheated on me, like the cheap version of drivers license,” you joke and he laughs with you.

“But it was still better than this, I guess?”

You hum, shaking your head. “Nah, my first song was a mess, but then it was like I just couldn’t stop writing, so my songs became my diary. Every time something happens, I write about it.”

He hums, moving the chair closer until your legs intertwine. “So, to write a love song you would need to fall in love?”

You’re taken aback by his question, and don’t reply right away. “No, I just need to be inspired. I’ll watch some movies, and it will come to me.”

His face twists in mild disgust as he shakes his head. “Movies are fake, it’s better to live things on your skin.”

“I don’t have time to date, and I can’t just find someone that easily,” you say laughing. “But don’t worry, I won’t make us fail. I’ll try to edit this and make it work if I really can’t come up with anything else.”

Haechan is not convinced, it’s clear in his face and the way his leg is bouncing nervously, but he doesn’t get back on the conversation. “Are you staying?”

“I have some notes to edit and —”

“You have tomorrow,” he cuts you off. “Come on, I have to do it too.”

You groan, hating the way you can’t say no to his big eyes staring at you. “Fine, but not too much.”

It’s useless to say that none of you get those notes written better.

“God, are you fucking Professor Kim?” Haechan growls, grabbing your wrist and stopping you in the college corridors right out of Music History class, the last lesson of Tuesday.

“What?” You babble out, surprised by his angry tone and his speculation.

“No cause you’re his favourite and it’s driving me insane,” he utters under his breath, glaring at you.

“I’m his favourite?” You tease, tilting your head to the side, loving the fire that turned on between you two. It had been three calm months, the bickerings were too intellectual and you missed this.

“Yeah, I gave him the exact same answer and he found the tiniest thing to say I wasn’t right, just so he could hear yours instead and praise you.”

“Oh, poor baby boy, Professor Kim didn’t give you head pats and now you’re mad?” You pout, patting his head in a mockery gesture.

Haechan groans, throwing his head back, and pushing you into the nearest empty class, closing the door behind.

“Haechan, what are y—”

“Shh,” he says, shushing you with a stern gaze and a squeeze of your wrist. “You passed by his office the other day, didn’t you? Needed extracurricular help ‘cause you didn’t understand something,” he mocks with a high-pitched voice. “Taught you how to play his flute in a historically accurate way?”

You’d love to laugh at his terrible blowjob-music reference but when his gaze darkens, you only chuckle, and that’s enough to drive him mad.

“God, for you is just a game, isn’t it?”

“You really think I fucked Professor Kim?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he fantasizes about having you bent over his desk and, fuck, it drives me mad.”

“You wish he fantasized about having you bent on his desk?” You joke, smirking.

He groans. “No, I hate the way he looks at you, and talks to you, the last thing he had to do today was to call you a good girl in front of the whole class.”

Your lips curl in an amused grin, but your heart —and something else— flutter at the way he says ‘good girl,’ you try not to show it and go on with your teasing. “Not my fault I’m good, and I’m interested in his subject.”

“Your fault you lick his boots,” he groans, pushing you flat against the door, standing so close to your nose. “I know you’re smart and you don’t need to ride a dick to be first in class but…” he stops, inhaling your scent, and leaning against your forehead.

You lift his head with two fingers under his chin, and lean in, whispering, “you still want to see me bent over a desk, and you want to be the one railing me, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t reply, not verbally at least. The only answer is a guttural moan and two arms lifting you, making your legs wrap around his waist as he kisses you roughly.

“Hyuck,” you moan into the kiss when he starts walking toward the desk, sitting you on the edge.

“Yeah?”

“We can’t — we — this is, we can get expelled…”

He snickers. “Be quiet and nobody will even hear us.”

“What if they lock us inside?”

“Shut up,” he groans again, kissing you another time as his bag drops on the floor. “You drive me so fucking mad, you have no idea.”

You snicker under your breath, but your heart loses a beat when his hands roam on your thighs, moving closer and closer to your heat. “Wait,” you whisper.

“Wait, what?” He hums, cupping your chin and lowering your head, staring straight into your eyes. Haechan scoffs when your thighs squeeze against each other and he can see you gulping. “Don’t act like you don’t want this,” he whispers, leaning closer to your lips, making you believe he’ll kiss you, but you only get a taste of his thumb rubbing over your full lips, “don’t act like you don’t want me.”

“Haechan!” You scream when he rips off your tights, the tear of the fabric resonating in the room as you look down in shock. “I’m gonna kill you,” you groan but he’s not bothered in the slightest.

“They were getting in the way, and I get rid of everything that gets in my way,” he says with a smirk.

You laugh mockingly. “Then why am I still here?”

His brows furrow and a small pout forms on his face but he shrugs it off. “I’m taking care of you, I told you,” he groans, kissing you harshly. “You’re not winning the war.”

“Oh, and your military strategy is to fuck me?”

“Yeah, until you forget everything.”

You huff loudly when he finishes ripping the tights from your legs, the only pieces left the ones trapped in your shoes, and you’re glad the skirt is long enough to don’t make you freeze on the way back home.

“So much better,” he says proudly, staring at his work of art, letting his hands wander on your now bare skin. “And, now, let’s find out if there’s a way to shut you up.”

You look at him in anticipation, waiting for his next move as if your life depends on it. And you hate to be so eager, you hate you fantasized on it more than you should’ve, but you want to know what his lips feel like. And it’s almost as if Haechan hears your secret thoughts.

“What do you want, sweetheart?” He taunts, kneading his fingers on your flesh.

“Nothing,” you mutter, trying to sound more confident than what you are.

Haechan laughs at you, shaking his head as he slowly gets on his knees, looking up at you. “You are always so fucking proud and annoying.” His hands rest on your knees before he pushes them far apart, forcing you in place as you uselessly try to close your legs. He tsk, shaking his head. “Don’t act ashamed, I’ve already felt you, and tasted you.”

You don’t reply. It’s hard to keep eye contact but this is bigger than sex, this is a game between you two and, he might not beat you in class, but he’s beating you right now.

His laugh brings you back to earth and you hate the smug smirk that’s sitting on his face. “So you do get quiet, thought I needed to give you a taste of my mouth to shut you up.”

You open your mouth to retort but the stern glare that flashes on his face is enough to put you back in your place.

“Good girl,” he says and your body trembles before you can even try to hide it. “Should I get a better taste of you?” He stares at you, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come, not like he wants to at least. “Use your words, babe. You know how to run that mouth when you want to, so, beg for it.”

“Fuck, no,” you retort, trying to move away but his hold on you doesn’t give any signs of loosening up.

“Okay, then,” he says, slowly standing up, and grabbing his bag. “See you around.”

“What?” You squeal, grabbing his wrist. “What are you doing?”

“Leaving,” he replies, shrugging.

“That’s not fair,” you reply, and he snickers.

“What? Are you wet? Do you want me?”

You don’t expect that reply and struggle to find the words, even more now that he’s standing between your open legs, keeping them apart, and his eyes are staring down at you, pinning you down in place. “I don’t want you,” you lie, swallowing the gulp in your throat when his right hand sits on your waist. “I just… I want to fuck.”

“Oh, do you? Well, there are plenty of people here, I’m sure many of them would want you. You know, even if you don’t pay attention to anybody, people look at you,” he whispers, caressing your jaw with his other hand. “First on the list is Professor Kim. Don’t you want to feel the thrill? Come on, go to his office now, so I can have something to hold against you forever.”

You chuckle. “Yeah? Want to blackmail me so I can do all the essays for you? Maybe you’ll get the best grades like this,” you tease, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt and making him groan.

He licks his lips, staring at yours, and you smirk. “I don’t need you to be first, and you know it.”

“Do I?” you tease. “Want to be first at something?”

“Don’t,” Haechan warns, eyes darkening even more while the tent in his tight pants becomes even more evident.

“What? You can be the first one who fucks me on a desk if you quit playing hard to get.”

“I’m not playing hard to get,” he replies, leaning even closer, your bodies are pressed together and you can feel his hard dick press against you. “I won’t be the one begging, especially to eat you out,” he groans, cupping your chin unexpectedly. “Don’t act as if you didn’t think of this before. I’ve seen the way you get lost in my fingers when we study together. You see me twirl a pen in my hand and you wish I was inside you, don’t you? And when we argue? There’s always a small fragment where you lose focus and stare at my lips. Where do you want them, honey?”

Your brows furrow but your entire body reacts differently, a small shake, while wetness pools down your panties, soaking them even more, and your eyes close because you can’t bear his smug glare.

“I said,” he urges, giving a quick squeeze to your chin, “where do you want my lips?”

“On — on me,” you breathe out, voice muffled by the firm hold on your face.

His lips twitch as he leans closer and kisses your cheek. “Here,” he says, holding back a laugh when your eyes widen. “That was where you wanted them, right?”

“Oh, fuck off, you know what I meant,” you huff.

“No, I’m the dumb one, remember? You are smarter than me, you know everything. I’m always a step behind, I need you to guide me step by step,” he mocks in a condescending tone, pouting.

You take a deep breath. “I hate you.”

“Oh, I know,” he laughs. “But if you use just three magic words I’m sure you’re going to love me for a while.”

You don’t want to give up but you’re on fire, and you fear that the more time passes by the more someone could find you out.

“I’ll ask nicely one last time,” he whispers against your lips. “Then I’ll ask you to do something for me and you’ll lose my lips for the second time. Where do you want them?”

“On my pussy,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“Fucking finally,” he laughs. “Was it so hard Miss big brain?”

“Stop mocking me!”

“Mocking you?” He asks, getting on his knees again before grabbing your panties to pull them down. “I might hate you but it would be dumb to not recognize your qualities, right?”

You don’t reply, you have other things to worry about. For example, your mortal enemies kneeled between your legs in an empty class of your Academy, staring into your soul, ready to eat you out.

“So, since you’re so good with words, here we go again. Beg.” Haechan craves putting his lips on you just as you do, but this is the only moment he can have some power over you. And after the humiliation of today’s class, he has to make you pay for it a bit. Or maybe he just wants to hear that even if you’d choke him and slap him, you still want him.

“Please, Donghyuck, please,” you plead, looking into his eyes.

He’d love to hear you beg for him more, but the way your cunt is dripping on the desk is already enough to tell him how much you want him, and for now, it’s enough.

When his lips come in contact with your skin your legs immediately hook around his shoulders and you can feel the chuckle on your wet folds.

“Eager, honey?”

“Just, please, eat me out already,” you barely have time to finish that he stops playing around and starts moving his mouth on you. Your head falls behind while your thighs squeeze tighter around his face. Your hands clench on the edge of the desk as you try to keep your balance, but it gets harder with every lick of his tongue.

“Keep quiet, the door is closed not locked,” he reminds you, pulling away from you just to pick up again.

You try to don’t be too loud, but he’s better than you expected and maybe this was the wrong time to try this out. You should’ve simply begged him to fuck you, but now that you’re in the middle of this, the last thing you want is to stop him.

One of your hands is brave enough to let go of the hold on the desk and reach his hair to push him closer to your body, surprising him.

Haechan always thought you were much more shy than this, honestly, he didn’t even hope much for this to happen. But you surprise him, not only you let him have you in a random class at your university but you are also pushing him closer.

“You are eager,” he muffles against you, he can’t pull away when you’re pressing him down with so much force, but the way you’re acting is setting him on fire. He loves hearing you moan and whimper, not a word coming out of your pretty lips to confront him, just bliss on your face and voice. And that pushes him to give you even more, putting his entire self into eating you out until he almost drags screams out of you, making both of you forget where you are.

You’re not sure how many minutes pass by but when the orgasm rushes in your body you feel it’s too close. You’d probably force him down for another round if you were in any other place but you don’t feel brave enough.

“So? Disappointed?” He asks, cleaning his chin as he stands up, reaching you again. “Don’t lie, you’re still dripping down the desk, you’re even more turned on than last time.”

“I’m not,” you lie. You know you are, and Haechan knows it too.

“What is it? The thrill of being caught? My skills? Just me, or something else?”

You don’t know why you reply with what you reply, but you do. “Maybe someone else,” you tease, not even sure he’ll take the bait, but he’s too caught up in you to see the games you’re playing.

“Yeah? And who’s that?”

“See, I always believed you were perspicacious and could catch details, I can’t believe you didn’t get it. You’re so sure Professor Kim wants to fuck me, ever thought I want him too?” You bat your lashes and Haechan tries to silence a groan, but you feel his fists clench at your sides.

“Don’t play with me, I’m not falling for this.”

You shrug. “Fine, I’ll still think about him while you fuck m—” he shuts you up with a rough kiss, pushing you down the desk with a quick movement that makes your heart jump to your throat.

“He’s not even that hot,” he groans, turning you around before bending you on the desk, and pulling your skirt up around your waist. “And he’s not even that old, there’s not even the charm of the dilf.”

“He’s smart,” you talk back, not sure how much you can pull your luck.

Haechan scoffs, slapping your ass. “Not smarter than me.”

“You’re not the professor so…”

“A degree means nothing,” he says, his chest pressing against your back. “What’s that you like so much about him?”

You chuckle. You’re not sure if he’s playing into your game or is just so easy to fool, but either way, you decide to keep going. “Everything. Don’t you see him?”

Haechan groans. Out of all the people, out of all the professors, he has a very personal beef with him that started at the start of the year and the way you just praise him so much —even outside of this specific situation where he got you’re messing up with him— drives him insane.

“Because he’s the best at everything? Isn’t he?”

You nod, expecting him to talk back but the only answer you get is the sharp sound of his belt being pulled away from his pants and smacked against your ass. “Fuck,” you curse, hating the way your body buzzes with pleasure at the impact.

Haechan chuckles. “I wonder what he would think of you if he saw you like this.”

“He wouldn’t think,” you say. “He’d act, fucking me like I deserve instead of wasting time like you.”

When his cock fills you up with no warning you almost scream but his hand is quicker at reaching your mouth.

“Yeah, would he fuck you better?”

You groan in his hand, but your brain goes blank with each thrust into you, pulling his hips back before he snaps them forward, so forcefully that you slide upward on the desk and he has to pull you down so that your hips don’t hit the wood.

“Answer me,” he urges, making a makeshift ponytail with your hair to force you up. “Would he?”

“I… I don’t know,” you cry out, feeling him deep inside of you, filling you perfectly.

“You just have to test me until I snap, don’t you?”

“He seems —fuck— fitter than you.”

Haechan snickers mockingly. “Yes? You want to be thrown around? Like you’re worth nothing? Do I have to do that to make you feel good?”

You shake your head, ass perking up, your feet on their tips as you try to keep balance.

“No? Is being fucked in a class enough for you? Does it satisfy your needs?” He hisses, eyes rolling back when he focuses them where your bodies meet, your cum dripping down his length and balls. He can’t believe how turned on you are. “Thought you were innocent but look at you.”

“Not my fault you don’t catch details,” you retort with a small bit of sanity —not really— you have in you.

“Details? Or maybe you’re just an actress. Making everyone believe you only think about grades and studies and here you are, drooling while I fuck you over a desk. Begging for my dick.”

You don’t even realize you are drooling down the desk and when you’re about to clean your chin, Haechan grabs your hands and pins them in place behind your back.

“No,” you whimper, falling flat with your chest pressing down the wooden table.

“Yes, honey,” he mocks. “I want to see you become a mess for me. Should I take a snap of you like this? Send it to Professor Kim so he can see he will never have you like this?” He whispers against your ear. “Think I don’t know it was all a play? Not only you don’t like him, but you wouldn’t risk your reputation for a terrible fuck when you have a brain like yours.”

Your pussy clenches. It’s the way his voice sounds like velvet, it’s how deep it’s hitting you, it’s in his words, and the way it turns you on that your number one rival, the one that despises you, still knows your value.

“Still, I’m pretty sure he wishes he could see you like this,” he adds, biting your earlobe. “A shame he can’t, right?”

“Y-yes,” you mumble in a pathetic wail.

“But maybe I could still keep it to myself,” his hips start moving with more force and you can’t hold back your moans as you clench around him. “Yeah? Want me to take a photo of you like this?”

You wish you could reply but words just don’t come out of your lips, brain emptying and eyes rolled back in your skull.

“Maybe another time,” he says, breath getting ragged as he keeps fucking into you with determination. “Don’t really want to pull away to take a pic of us.”

“There — there won’t be —fuck— another time,” you reply, forcing yourself to speak.

Haechan snickers. “The mess between your legs tells me otherwise,” he mocks, reaching in front of you to play with your clit, making you shake. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, you deserve good things, even a good fuck from me.”

“Too much,” you cry out, feeling your eyes getting wetter as the orgasm starts choking you.

“No, you just haven’t had a decent orgasm in ages,” he retorts.

“Shut up! You know —shit— you know nothing.”

“Honey, I can only imagine you playing with yourself, but your hands or toys don’t come close to me,” he says, so smugly you can feel the smirk on his face. And you can’t even retort because —as much as you hate it— he’s right.

“Come here,” he says, putting a hand over your shoulders to pull you closer to him. “Are you close?”

You nod, biting your lower lip until it bleeds because you’re sure the sound of your ass slamming against his hips is already a giveaway of what’s going on inside this room. You clench around him when he bites down your shoulder to muffle a louder groan as his hips start moving faster as he chases his climax.

You feel your legs give up as the second orgasm hits you and you hold against the desk again because you don’t know where else to hold on to. Haechan tries to keep his curses low, sticking his face in the crook of your neck and you feel you could come again just by his voice alone; his moans the pretties sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Oh god,” you breathe out when he gently lets go of your body and you can relax on the hard surface again, squirming in discomfort when he pulls out of you.

“I hope you didn’t tear my panties apart, too,” you say, rolling on your back, making him laugh.

“Don’t move, you’ll stain the skirt, it’s the only clean thing on the table,” he says, grabbing a napkin to prevent you from making even more of a mess.

“And who’s fault is that?” You ask, glaring at him.

“You should just thank me for the orgasm, better, two orgasms, I gave you.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but still letting him clean you up, after all, the cum was his, so it’s his place to clean it. After you’re sure you won’t ruin the last untouched piece of clothes you have, you sit up, taking your —uncomfortably— wet panties to put them on.

“So…” he whispers as he cleans up the rest of the mess on the table and shoves your broken tights in his bag, “it was just for fun, right? You have no intentions with Mr…”

You break down laughing. “You’re so easy to fool. You seriously think I’ll ever let him see me like this?”

Haechan scoffs, finishing fixing his clothes before walking to the door. “It’s not about what you would do, is if you think of him.”

“I don’t,” you reply, following him even if you feel like your legs could give up any second. “I wonder if your jealousy was also a play,” you tease, nudging him as you two walk down the corridor to leave.

“It wasn’t jealousy, you would just have terrible taste if you truly liked him, and I have beef with him.”

You chuckle, deciding to believe him.

“Wait,” he says, stopping to search for something in his bag.

“I’ll go for the door, reach me,” you say, starting to head on, you’re not even sure you two could be there at that time. “Lee Donghyuck,” you curse when you try to push open the front door. “What did I say?”

He walks toward you nonchalantly and shrugs. “Yeah?”

“They locked us in!”

He smiles, shaking his head, and grabbing your hand. “Can you run?”

“What?” You blink a few times, trying to understand how his question fits the situation.

“After I fucked you like that, can you run?”

“Shush,” you scold, fearful someone might hear, you’re not sure who since you seem to be completely alone, but better safe than sorry. “And no, I don’t know, I… why would we run?”

“Do you trust me?” He asks, reaching out his hand for you to take.

“No,” you say resolutely.

“Good,” he smirks before he starts running into the corridors, giving you no chance but to follow him, cursing and damming every life decision that led you here, with cum threatening to leak out of you after you finished having sex in the class of your Academy and are now running to go God knows where, locked inside the institute.

“Hyuck!” You scream when he runs up the stairs and you swear you never felt so much adrenaline rush in your blood but when he looks back for a second and shows you his big bright smile with his hair falling in his face perfectly, you swear the world stops and all your worries are lifted from your shoulders. Maybe you trust him. Maybe you need to be this carefree sometimes.

Your heart jumps in your throat when he pushes open an emergency door and the mild breeze of March runs over you. You breathe in deeply, pushing into your lungs the air and the first early spring scent, letting the wind play with your hair and your clothes while your hand never lets go of his.

And then you both start laughing. Never looking back, and terribly looking forward, watching your steps as you run down the emergency stairs. You laugh, and you’re happy and you can’t believe your fingers are still intertwined with the ones of your mortal enemy.

When you reach the ground floor, hidden in the back of the palace where the sun doesn’t shine, there are still some tears spilling out of your eyes. You two pant, trying to catch your breath, and look at each other before you have to look away or else you will start laughing again.

You can’t believe you followed him blindly.

Your hands are still intertwined.

With each passing day, Haechan is convinced he has a perfect plan. It’s all part of the original plan, but if he gets you to try out romantic things, not only will he distract you from your perfect grades but he will also make you come up with a song that will give him a perfect score.

There are some small details that Haechan didn’t even consider. Detail number 1: where this could lead you two and your relationship. Detail number 2: that while distracting you, he will inevitably distract himself. But he doesn’t get it until it’s too late.

Haechan can’t remember when you started to dress up so much every time you hang out. You always dress well, or maybe he is biased for thinking that even the most basic white turtleneck shirt and cargo pants when you are too done with life to put up your skirts, dresses, or cutely styled other types of outfits, look amazing on you. Yet, during these last few dates, you started doing more, playing more with your hairstyles, trying different make-up, and always looking perfect in whatever clothes you put on your body.

Haechan hates you. Now more than ever because this was supposed to be your silly little race to the top of your second academic year and yet here he is, feeling his heart pound in his throat as you walk toward him. With your hair in a slicked-back ponytail, a freaking heart-shaped side part, your short red dress, while the white cardigan covers your arms and shields you from the light breeze, and your red short heels tap on the asphalt and bring his attention to the white socks that reach you right below your knees, while your hand clench around a heart-shaped bag.

He hates you because he wants you too badly and he’s terrified this is crossing the lines of bland and stupid physical attraction.

You smile, calling him Hyuck and he’d love to scream because he can’t be so smart and yet so dumb at the same time. But he tries to ignore it, and smiles back at you, addressing you with your surname so he can put some distance between you. You don’t even get mad anymore, it makes you smile tenderly as you lower your face to the ground and tangle your arm with his to walk to the car. Now he hopes that the old sardine can will make you two blow up, not to kill you, but to don’t make you accept a date from him anymore.

But that old car struggles but doesn’t crash, and drives you to the restaurant safely.

“This place is so pretty,” your voice rings in his ears, bringing him out of the thought he’s struggling with since you walked out of your apartment.

“Yeah, it’s musically themed, thought it was a good idea.”

“And the dishes also have song names? That’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” your face lightens up when you scan the menu and in reflection, he does too.

What the fuck are you doing? He curses when he catches himself lost on you, too focused giggling like a child as you catch the references between the songs and the plates. You look like a cliché embodiment of love, and he thinks you’ve done it on purpose. It’s way past Valentine’s Day, but he feels that Cupid is flying right above you, ready to play him a dirty trick.

“So? You picked?” You ask, bringing him out of his thoughts, and he shakes his head, coughing while glueing his eyes on the menu.

“Nope, I’m a bit uncertain,” he says, pretending he wasn’t just too busy staring at you a few moments ago.

You laugh, humming. “Oh, I know.”

“What did you get?” He asks, meeting your eyes above the paper in his hand.

“I wanted to get the Summer 69’ appetizer first,” you reply and he smirks.

“Are you hinting at something?”

“Oh, shut up, you perv! It just looks tasty, there are different appetizers from different parts of the world and it’s a cold start.”

“Then we can take the big one so we can share?”

“Sure,” you reply, smiling at him. “Oh, and then ‘I wanna dance with somebody’ as the main dish.”

“Do you?” He winks.

“I’m not sending you signals, I’m just starving,” you reply, rolling your eyes, but he hears the low giggle that you try to hold back.

“Fine,” he smiles. “I’ll take ‘Maneater’ in your honour.”

“I’m a maneater? Oh, thanks, the best compliment ever actually,” you say playfully.

He smiles, stopping for a second after he hands you his menu. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.” And when your mouth parts and no sound come out of it, he thinks he screwed it up. It’s not the first time he compliments you but well, the other times didn’t sound so serious.

But then your face breaks in a smile, and your eyes light up, shily diverting the gaze as you thank him before the waitress saves you both from the embarrassment that’s tangible in the air.

“Karaoke? Are you being extremely nice, borderline perfect, tonight so you can show me the biggest twist ever?” You gasp when the karaoke downtown enters your line of view. You’ve been walking for a while now since he couldn’t find a spot nearby, but he never mentioned where your next stop would be.

“I’m always nice to you when we go out on da— like this,” Haechan replies, opening the door of the place for you to get in first. “Also, since we’ll have to record the song soon, I think it’s time to test our vocal abilities.”

You giggle, waiting for him before you start walking to the desk to book a room.

“Karaoke is for fun, never to show off you’re like Celine Dion.”

Haechan chuckles, nodding in agreement while you reach the booth that the lady at the counter assigned you.

“Right, I’m more like Ailee, actually,” he jokes, closing the door behind you.

“Prove it to me, I always hear your mouth run to talk shit but never to sing melodies, so…”

“Should we go for a duet?” He asks, starting the TV to scroll down the songs listed.

“Nope,” you say, sitting on the couch. “A solo song first.”

“Fine,” he says, humming as the titles pass in front of your vision. “Mhh, what about Dean?”

“Love him, would love him more if he came back from the death and dropped another album of the year,” you say, sitting back to fully enjoy Haechan’s performance.

He chuckles at your comment. “This one was a painful reminder,” he says before clicking on “Instagram,” making the logo of the place appear before the countdown, signalling the beat was about to start.

You never thought you would find yourself so caught up in him but when he opens his mouth, you feel like you’re being taken to another world.

His voice sounds like honey, so raw yet so lovely. And as he keeps singing, you think that he would be wasted as a producer, a voice like his deserves to be heard by everyone. But when he finishes, you don’t show any of the emotions you felt.

“Your performance was very touching,” you say while standing up to grab your mic, “but I’m a performer, so I’ll go with Queen Britney.”

“Can’t wait to see your Superbowl worth it performance,” he snickers, sitting back against the small couch in the room as he watches you getting ready.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you start, winking at him and swinging your hips to follow the rhythm of the music.

Haechan would love to find it as funny as he does at the start, but when you start singing for real, and moving around in the small boot, he gulps, feeling the air around him starting to dim. And it only gets worse when you turn around and start to perform for him. Of course, you know the song by heart, you don’t need to read the words, and you don’t need them to change colour to know when each verse, chorus and bridge starts.

“Oops, I did it again, I played with your heart,” you wink, tilting your head to the side, still moving your body to the beat. He can’t tell, not right at the moment, but he thinks you’re replicating the choreography. That’s the last worry in his mind.

I played with your heart.

And Haechan thinks you really did that. This doesn’t feel like a game anymore, and not even like sex. He looks at you, even right now, that you’re sensually singing a Britney Spears song, and he can only fucking smile like an idiot.

“Wow,” you exhale when the song ends, fanning yourself with your hand, “it’s really hot in here.”

“It definitely is,” he whispers, drifting his gaze from you.

“So? How was I?” You ask, head tilted to the side, and a big, bright smile on your face.

“Good,” Haechan mutters, catching himself staring at you for too long again, shaking his head, the red blush on his face is humiliating. “You were good.”

“Yes,” you cheer, clapping your hands. “Should we duet, now?”

He hums, grabbing the remote again and searching ‘duets’ in the search bar. “Sad, sexy or silly?”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“What? I’m trying to understand the vibe we want to go with.”

“I’ll let you pick,” you say just to regret it when you see the song choice on the screen. “Seriously? Anything you can do?”

“What? It’s fitting for how relationship,” he says nonchalantly.

“That’s a crazy choice.”

“Worried you can’t actually do better than me?” He winks, passing you the mic as the song loads on the screen.

“You’ll see,” you challenge with a glare.

One minute into the song you regret having agreed to that, not remembering the last time you sang like this, but the look on his face when it’s time for you to hold a long note for 15 seconds is worth it. And it keeps going until the end, as you both surprise each other with all the skills that this song requires.

“Wow, you’re good,” you both say when the song ends and you break down laughing, a sound that grows bigger when the screen lights up to show a perfect score.

“Maybe we make a great couple together,” you say, laying back on the couch, tired from the singing.

Haechan turns to you, smirking and nodding. “I guess we do.”

You sit up, resting your chin on his arm. “Can you take another one?”

“Oh, don’t test me, baby.”

“So, ice cream is good for vocal cords?” You giggle as you walk to the side of the Han River with the ice cream in hand. It seemed like Haechan didn’t want to end the night anytime soon, but you don’t feel like complaining.

“Yeah,” he hums with conviction, licking another stripe of chocolate.

“On which book you’ve read this scientific fact?”

“The ice cream ghost came to me one night and whispered the secret to my ear,” he jokes, making you laugh.

“Uhm, yeah, I think that ghosts are much more reliable than old men in white coats in a lab,” you joke, but then you remember something you wanted to talk about since you’ve walked out of the karaoke. “Mhh, you know what I was thinking?”

Haechan shakes his head, waiting for you to talk.

“I think we’re going down the wrong path with our song,” you voice out. “Especially me. A warmer, darker, I dare to say more sensual vibe, fits us better.”

Haechan chuckles and you glare at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he giggles, but he can’t lose against you so he goes on. “That’s the production, you know?”

You huff, rolling your eyes, and jumping on the handrail to sit. “I never said it wasn’t important.”

“Whatever,” he snickers. “So I have to scrap everything I’m working on?”

You shake your head, cleaning your hands after swallowing the last bite of the cone. “No, I was thinking about the second base you were working on, the one with the guitars and violins, remember?”

He hums, but he’s dangerously close to you, and you don’t understand why his hands wrap around your waist.

“I think we could use that and —” you gulp when he places his feet on the handrail under you and reaches your height, “and then I can change small things of my — my writing to fit more. What do you think?”

He smiles before it turns into his usual smirk. “I still think you’re worrying too much and you’re not letting it come to you,” he whispers, and the air of his breaths puffs on your lips before he erases the space between you and kisses you.

You feel your breath taken away as you feel like you’re falling behind in the river as the wind blows harder and your hands immediately leave the handrail to reach for him.

You’re not sure that wasn’t an attempted murder from him, but you can’t care when you feel your heart flutter and your legs give up as he deepens the kiss.

“Let it flow,” he whispers, kissing you again, whispering against your lips, “and the song will come at you.”

You know it’s not what he’s talking about, but you kiss him again, this time pushing him down so your feet are on the ground again. Your hands are holding tight on his sweatshirt as you pull him even closer and he does the same wrapping his arms around your frame tighter.

You find yourself in the same position in the living room of his apartment, struggling to make it to his bedroom without waking some of the others up. Not that you care much, it would be fair payback for all the chaos they make when you and Haechan are studying together.

The clothes fall on the floor as quickly as he’s on top of you on the bed.

“I hate that I have to ruin your pretty face,” he whispers, fingers deep inside your sopping wet cunt, pumping in and out painfully slowly as he stares at your face, a cute mix between ecstasy and annoyance because he’s giving you something but not enough. “The red eyeshadow looks really good on you, you know?”

You groan, rolling your head back. “It’s not time for compliments.”

“I’ve been complimenting you all night,” he says, teasing your clit with flicks of his thumb but without giving you much. “It is a shame you will look like a mess once I’m done with you.”

“We can’t be loud,” you say, hating that, for one reason or another, you two always have to keep quiet.

“Nah, Jeno has his headphones on playing games with Yangyang. Renjun has headphones on with music to don’t listen to Jeno. Mark’s not home and not even bombs wake Jaemin up.” The explanation is particularly non-sexy now that he has his fingers inside of you and it doesn’t make you relax much, but you hum nonetheless and beg him to keep going.

“Patience, honey. We’ve got all night,” he smirks.

“Yeah but —”

“Ah, ah,” he says, clicking his tongue and silencing you with a finger on your lips. “What did I tell you before? Let it flow.”

“It was different it was —ugh,” you mumble when he covers your mouth with his hand, eyes widening before they narrow to send him a deadly glare, but he only smirks. He has control now. He always does when he has you underneath him, he still has to fight with you a bit, but you both know this is the only time he can ever win against you. And tonight is special, he wants you to let go of the reins completely, he wants you brainless, because even if your brain is the sexiest thing of you —yeah, yeah, and the thing that is making his college years hell on earth— your brain is also the thing that makes you obsess over the smallest thing and doesn’t make you follow your heart so freely.

Yeah, tonight Donghyuck wants you free, but for the sake of the dirty talking later —and to fool himself he doesn’t care about you that much— he’s going to say he wants you dumb.

And he’s starting strong tonight, his beautiful, long fingers reaching deep inside you, hitting right against your sweet spot, causing so much cum to pool around them and drip down while your pussy clenches hard and your hips buck up to ride the pleasure with him. And you don’t have it in you to fight; it feels too good, especially when he starts rubbing your clit and whispers dirty talk about how well you’re taking him.

Your eyes flutter open, just in time to catch the proud smirk on his face as he stares at your body, you dare to say, in awe. It shouldn’t warm your heart, but it does. You don’t even care if he sees you like a prize he won, right now, because even if he does, you know he only fights hard to win the trophies he cares about. He wants you, he likes you, even. Between the hate and the tension, something about what attracts you two together makes this work. And it’s fine.

“Hyuck,” you breathe out, chest panting and toes curling as you feel the familiar knot in your stomach. But you don’t expect the next words that come out of your mouth. “Kiss me.” When you realize what you said, you anticipate him mocking you, your ears already hear the snicker you know, oh so well, but it never arrives. What arrives are his lips on yours as he leans down, pressing his chest against yours while his fingers keep working wonder inside you.

The kiss is passionate, but not rough like the ones you’re so used to sharing. There’s no anger in it, just need and greed, and chemistry. So much chemistry, your hands have to run in his hair and tug them, making him moan and his dick throb against your thigh.

“I want you so bad,” he slurs against your lips. “I will do some dumb shit one day for you.”

You don’t get what he means. You don’t even know what he could mean by that given the nature of your bond, but his words, mixed with the sultry tone of his voice, are enough to make you come. You barely register the orgasm, hitting you like a singular explosion of a firework, leaving you gasping, exploding as quickly as it came yet slowly running through your bones as the feeling tones down.

Haechan snickers softly. “You love it when I get in trouble for you, don’t you? Even when it’s just a promise.”

Your lips part to reply but he shuts you with a kiss. “No talking, not unless I tell you to. I know everything I need to know, your body tells me that,” he says, grinning like an idiot when he shows you his cum coated fingers, tapping them against your lips, silently ordering you to taste yourself. You would never do that, but tonight it’s like he’s commanding you like a puppet on a string, and you obey. Closing your lips around him and sucking hard.

He smirks, feeling his dick get even harder as he stares at your lips. “That’s what I do to you, pretty girl. And I’m not even started.”

Your pussy throbs in anticipation while he pulls his fingers out. You know he’s one to keep promise, and you can’t wait for what’s to come. But he’s taking too long, and you can feel his hard dick against your leg, so your hand creeps down to touch it.

“You’re not in command tonight, angel,” he says, grabbing your wrist to stop you from moving your hand on him.

“But I want you,” you whine, trying to win him with a pouty look on your face.

It doesn’t work as he pushes your hand over your head and leans in. “Patience, princess. Keep quiet, don’t be greedy and just trust me. Can you do that? Or is it too hard for you?” He groans against your ear, making your hips buck up.

“I — I can,” you whisper but he stops with a glare and your brain replays his words ‘quiet, no words from you tonight,’ and he means it. So you nod, breathing in deeply as you feel weak in the knees for the way he looks at you.

“Good girl,” he says, pushing up to stand between your legs, pushing them open.

When he slips inside you, you gasp, dragging your nails on his back. “Are you alright?”

You nod, forcing yourself to look into his eyes.

“Good, and now,” he whispers, kissing your lips, and dragging out of you, “I want you to give into me and completely turn your brain off. You have me, that’s all you need right now.”

When he starts moving in and out, your body succumbs to the pleasure. Your muscles relax as you let him take care of you. His lips trace over your sensitive skin, leaving kisses on your neck and chest. His hands run over your body, touching and squeezing every inch. And he reaches so deep inside of you that you feel you can barely breathe.

“Just like this,” Haechan whispers close to your ear, gently biting the skin on your jaw. “Don’t think about anything,” he groans, hitting you deep after pulling out of you completely. “Not a single worry in that pretty brain of yours.”

You rarely let him win, but you have to admit that the way he makes you feel, the way he can lift all the stress off your shoulders, is a talent. He knows what he’s doing, and the scary thing is that he knows how to get you. So easily wrapped around his fingers, crumbling into nothing at his tiniest touch.

You whimper loudly when his fingers press against your clit, seeing stars at the new stimulation.

“You can take it,” he groans. You’re about to talk but he traps your lips in a messy, wet kiss as he pulls you closer by your waist, hitting even deeper. “You’re a good girl, right? You can take it.”

You’re doubtful, but you do take it, over and over again. You lose track of time and stop counting your orgasms after the third. There’s no need for that. All you need is the pleasure Donghyuck gives you, fucking you until both of you can’t do it anymore.

There’s nothing left once it’s over, no strength to talk or clean up the mess, just the warmth of your bodies cuddled against each other.

“Good morning, I will kill Lee Je — what the hell,” Renjun exclaims, entering the kitchen, making you turn around as if you’ve been caught stealing, holding the mug full of coffee in your hands and giving him a shy smile. “What are you doing here?”

You gulp, pushing your hair out of your face before coming up with a lie. “We studied too late.”

Renjun steps further into the room, staring at you with a raised brow before he tilts his head and studies how you’re dressed. You’re wearing Donghyuck’s sweater and pants.

“Oh, now they call it studying? Last time I checked you’re not med students, didn’t know music had anatomy in the program,” he taunts, grinning at you as he comes to your side.

You choke on your saliva and don’t have time to come up with a reply because he strikes again.

“Oh, no, maybe you were exercising vocalization, it’s better when it’s done together, right?” He winks and you glare at him.

“It’s not what you think,” you lie, but honestly you feel so embarrassed about everything. You didn’t think anybody else would be up this early on a Sunday, but it’s clear you don’t know Renjun well. You could’ve left, but you didn’t want to. It was slowly starting to sink in that you didn’t like the solitude of your life anymore.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody,” he says, sitting in front of you. “Come here, don’t stay up.”

You do as told, and smile when he offers you a pack of biscuits. “I would’ve cooked something usually, but Jeno kept me up all night.”

You chuckle. “It’s fine, normally I don’t even have breakfast.”

“You don’t?” He gasps, and you nod.

“Yeah, just coffee.”

He looks down at you, shaking his head in disappointment. “It’s not healthy.”

“I know, I know, I’ll try to eat more, okay? For you.” You reach out your hand and he takes it.

A fit of cough brings both of your gazes to the door and you see Haechan stand against the frame. “Once it’s Jeno, another time it’s Renjun. I bring you home to study and you flirt with my friends.”

“Drop the bullshit, Hyuck. He knows,” you say, rolling your eyes.

Haechan’s eyes widen, but he slowly fakes indifference. “Knows what? That you don’t have time for a relationship so you can’t date him?”

“That you two fuck,” Renjun answers instead, making him cough.

“That’s not true,” he defends. “I hate her,” he says, laughing, but when he meets your eyes and sees them sadden, he feels pain in his heart. “No, no, I don’t hate her, but we’re… you know our relationship, why would we fuck?”

“Who’s fucking?”

“Not you, Jeno. Not you for sure,” Renjun says, rolling his eyes.

“Hey! Why do you always gotta be so rude,” Jeno whines.

“I doubt he’s not getting laid,” you chuckle, and Jeno winks playfully.

“See, words of a wise woman,” he brags, walking to the fridge to grab something.

Renjun sighs loudly. “A woman that doesn’t know you.”

“Would you fuck him?” Haechan asks out of nowhere and you glare at him.

“I just said that he’s hot and smart, I don’t see how he can have a hard time finding somebody,”

“’Cause he’s annoying,” Renjun answers, but Haechan’s not listening.

“I didn’t ask that,” Donghyuck says instead, his attention is all on you as if there’s nobody else in the room.

“I don’t answer stupid questions,” you reply before sipping from your cup and drifting your gaze away.

“Wait, why are you here?” Jeno asks, only now realizing you’re not supposed to be at their place, not in the morning at least… wait… “Wait! Are you two fuck—”

“No,” Haechan answers sternly, glaring at him. “We’re studying. And it got late, so since we were closer to my place, I let her stay the night.”

“I thought you left yesterday saying you had a date, though,” Jeno says confused.

You chuckle under your breath before you feel Haechan’s hand wrap around your writs to pull you out of the room, not even giving you time to finish your coffee. “A studying date, and now drop it.”

When you reach his room, he groans loudly, walking to the closet to pick something to wear. You watch him move for a while, but then you can’t keep your thoughts inside your head anymore.

“Are you ashamed of me?” You ask and he turns around with wide eyes.

“What?”

“Am I something to be ashamed of? Do I don’t fit in the standard of the people you would usually fuck?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want them to get invasive, they don’t let me live once they know something. And with you, it’s more embarrassing because of our history…”

You giggle, trying not to show the relief you’re feeling because, for a moment, you thought he was one of those types of men.

“Why can’t you ever make things easy for me?” He asks, annoyance in his voice. You have so much power over him, more than he likes to admit, and he feels like he can’t even be too mad at you about it.

“Sorry, it’s just, it’s funny having a history with you,” you explain. “My mortal enemy, always ready to steal my number ones, and my good grades.”

“You’re so annoying, you’re never sleeping over ever again.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I won’t let you fuck me ever again.”

“Liar,” he says. “And now move, I’ll drop you home.”

you can find part two on my account on the story masterlist or haechan’s masterlist (i can’t link it because if i do the post won’t appear in the tags)

general taglist: @froggyforhyuck, @wingsss45, @tddyhyck, @technologyculturedneo

fic taglist: @hcluvie, @gusgus0517, @multifandomania, @413cl, @odgsuji,

@hey-hey-heybitch, @nctrawberries, @n0hyuck, @haechoshi,

@girlwholoveslpreppyattire, @viciousdarlings, @hyuckmoon,

@jaeymark, @hqech, @xntlax, @milkyway-vxm, @fullsunahceah,

@beomgyusonlywife, @toroufriteh, @yesohhsehun @shxnz

@haecastor, @hyucksaint, @sk8ermark, @midnightrained

@maiteeeeesstuff, @smwhrinthehaze, @yoursyuno

#nct fanfiction #haechan smut #lee haechan smut #donghyuck smut #lee donghyuck smut #haechan fluff #lee haechan fluff #donghyuck fluff #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #haechan scenarios

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verstappensrealwife · 2 months ago

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Silver Springs - Ex!Oscar Piastri x Singer!Reader

[oscar piastri masterlist / f1 masterlist]

ʚɞ in which... oscar goes to his ex girlfriends concert after cheating on her.

ʚɞ angst -> fluff? ending. ⋆⭒˚.⋆ 900 words + SMAU

ʚɞ warnings: NOT an oscar ending, cheating, oscar's sisters are made to be much younger (like under 10). lana del rey faceclaim.

ʚɞ poll at end of fic to decide who she dates next!

༻❁༺

When you and Oscar split up, it wasn’t amicable like he told the media. He broke up with you, and you were distraught. Going black out on social media for months before announcing a new single. It wasn’t long before writing the song that you found out the reason it all really ended. He had said, “Mclaren says no more distractions,” You soon found out that just meant “No more you.”

This revelation came a few weeks later when he was seen posted up with a girl. The timelines of your relationships overlapping. Distraught was now the understatement of the year.

༻❁༺

The release of the single marked a turning point in your narrative. The song, dripping with raw emotion, resonated deeply with listeners. The lyrics were painfully direct, a window into your heartbreak and the betrayal that followed. Fans dissected every line, piecing together the story and speculating about who it was written for.

The album followed, a cohesive story of love lost and the journey back to self. While some songs still bore the weight of your pain, others hinted at healing, even defiance. Critics hailed it as your most vulnerable and mature work yet. Headlines shifted from speculations about your personal life to accolades about your artistry.

Meanwhile, Oscar stayed silent, perhaps believing the storm would pass. But the scrutiny on him intensified, especially as the timelines between his relationships were publicly examined. The girl he was seen with became a topic of conversation too, though you never once mentioned her. Your silence in interviews about him spoke volumes; you let the music say it all.

As the months passed, you began to flourish in ways that no longer revolved around heartbreak.

By the time the album tour rolled around, you had fully embraced your own narrative. On stage, in sold-out venues, you exude confidence. The heartbreak that once defined your every move was now just one chapter in a bigger story—a story of resilience, transformation, and unapologetic self-love.

༻❁༺

Oscar’s sisters sat on either side of him, laughing and chatting as they waited for the next song, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing on stage. To them, this was just another concert—a chance to see one of the biggest stars of the moment, someone they might have even admired from afar before all of this. They didn’t notice the way your gaze had frozen the moment you spotted him in the crowd. They didn’t feel the heat rising as you stared him down, the room suddenly smaller, suffocating.

The intro to Silver Springs started, and the audience quieted, the opening chords rippling through the venue like an unspoken promise of something extraordinary. As the spotlight shifted back to you, the weight of the moment settled. You gripped the mic tighter, your knuckles white, your shoulders tense. You knew the song would hurt to sing. What you didn’t expect was how much it would hurt him.

You began softly, your voice trembling with emotion

"You could be my silver springs...

Blue-green colors flashing..."

Your eyes found him immediately. The spotlight didn’t extend to his seat, but you didn’t need it. You could feel him, your gaze cutting through the crowd like a blade. For a moment, he looked back at you, then quickly away, shifting uncomfortably. His sisters kept chatting, oblivious, swaying gently to the melody.

But as the song built, so did your intensity.

"Time cast a spell on you,

But you won't forget me..."

You leaned into the words, your voice growing sharper, angrier, the crackling edge of your heartbreak evident in every syllable. You didn’t just sing the song—you lived it, every word a pointed accusation. Oscar shifted again, staring at the stage now, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable but tense. His sisters seemed utterly at ease, clapping politely during an instrumental break, their chatter not stopping for a moment.

And then the line came:

"I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you..."

You let the words hang in the air, staring directly at him. The audience roared, swept up in the passion of your performance, but you didn’t even register them. This was personal, a message delivered with precision and fury.

Oscar’s sisters finally caught on to the awkward tension between you and him, but they only exchanged confused looks, still clueless as to the weight of what was happening. They turned to him, whispering something, but he didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at you with a mixture of regret and defiance.

As the song reached its emotional crescendo, you pushed through to the final verse, your voice soaring. By the time the last note faded into silence, you stood there, staring into the dark where he sat, breathing hard, your heart pounding.

The audience erupted into applause, breaking the moment. You straightened, taking a deep breath and allowing a small, almost imperceptible smile to cross your face. You turned and walked offstage for a brief interlude, leaving him there, knowing he’d felt every word.

༻❁༺

༻❁༺ ༻❁༺ ༻❁༺

I hope this was good 🫣 I’ve not done an SMAU before

Click here to be added to the tags list ❤️

tags: @uhhvictoria @anamiad00msday

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emilys-bangs · 5 months ago

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Mom!Emily with a baby girl who’s a little older… maybe 2 or 3, and is entering that stage where she hates when mom leaves for work.

Maybe all 3 of you are at the front door seeing Emily off. Baby girl is just pouting and whining and gripping onto Emily’s pant legs ❤️‍🩹

tearful goodbyes | e.p

Tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end, mom!emily, no use of yn, use of petnames

Word count: 1.8k

This broke my heart...but I also loved it <3

This used to be easier.

When Emily wasn’t part of a whole, when she didn’t have a ring around her finger and a piece of her heart walking around on little legs and clutching her calves at the door. Leaving used to be a matter of throwing a bag over her shoulder and piling food for Sergio in his bowl. Now it’s tears at the front door, her heart splitting in two as she fights an internal battle she already knows she’s going to lose.

Having a family changed everything. Having you changed everything; Emily’s life shifted, turned on its head when you came into it, and Eloise only added to the light in both of your lives. Two became three, a lonely apartment became a lively one. She wouldn’t change it for the world, but sometimes she wishes it didn’t have to be this hard.

“Eloise,” she says softly over the sound of sobs, “Mommy has to go.”

Emily has to speak past the lump in her throat. It was quick to appear when her daughter wrapped her small hands around her knee, pressing her face into it and soaking Emily’s slacks with her tears. Now Eloise whines, looking up at her mother with tearful eyes that make Emily’s heart twist.

“Mommy stay.” Her lip wobbles.

She’s growing tired of saying I can’t, so Emily bends down and picks her up. Eloise scrambles into her arms, hugging her neck and dampening her skin with her tears. The three-year-old clings to her tightly, arms around her neck and legs around her waist, as if her mother is going off into the trenches rather than the BAU.

Help me, Emily begs you with her eyes, the taste of tears thick in the back of her throat. She rubs absent circles on Eloise’s back as you step closer to them, your hand joining hers.

“Ellie,” you say, catching your daughter’s attention. She turns to you with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Mommy has to leave for work now, you gotta let her go.” You gently wipe her damp cheek.

“No.” Eloise whines. “Want Mommy to stay.”

“I’ll stay for five minutes,” Emily says, her voice scratchy as she combs through Eloise’s messy hair with her fingers, “and then I have to go, okay? And you have to go to preschool.”

Eloise dissolves into sobs again. “No,” she hiccups, burying her face in Emily’s neck and scorching her skin with her hot tears. You chew on your lip and Emily blows out a breath, shaky as she rocks her flailing daughter.

“Honey, you’ll have fun at preschool. You always do. You’ll get to play with Lily and see Miss Emma.” She desperately tries to soothe. Her voice is on the edge of cracking, frayed and thready from being the reason for Eloise’s meltdown.

This used to be easier.

“Don’t wanna go! Wanna go with you.” Her daughter whimpers. Emily’s heart cracks.

“Baby…”

It would be so easy. To call Hotch, tell him she’s down with the flu. There’s no case, only a mind numbing day of paperwork ahead, and she can just have JJ swing her case files by after work—

“Okay,” you announce, suddenly waving around a sheet of red heart stickers. “I’ve got an idea.”

Emily frowns. When did you get those? Probably when she’d involuntarily closed her eyes against the sound of her daughter’s tears.

“Hey, Eloise,” you gently smooth some of her hair behind her ear. “Listen to me, baby. Can you give me your hand?” You ask softly, reaching for the hand she has fisted in Emily’s collar.

Eloise blinks at you with damp eyes. “Mommy will be right here, just give me your hand, honey,” you reassure. Emily nudges her lips against Eloise’s forehead in a kiss, and when you hold your hand out this time, she places hers in your palm.

“Thank you,” you quickly kiss the back of her tiny hand before showing her the pack of stickers you’d gotten. “See these?”

Eloise nods. You peel one of the hearts from the sheet and gently place it on the back of her hand. Both Emily and Eloise peer down at it, their foreheads pressed together as you smooth your thumb over the sticker to make sure it sticks.

You look to Emily when you’re done. “Mommy, can I have your hand, please?” A small smile pulls at your lips.

Emily matches it with a soft one of her own as she shifts Eloise to her other hip and frees her right hand. You take it and place a matching red heart on the back of her hand, right in the middle; it stands out against her pale skin. Again you rub your thumb over it to make it stick, both the action and Eloise’s quieting sniffles making her relax.

With her hand still in yours, you take Eloise’s too. “See these hearts you and Mommy have?” You ask, holding their hands side by side. Eloise nods into Emily’s neck; your wife smiles, starting to see where this is going. “Whenever you miss her, you can just touch the heart. And when Mommy misses you, she touches her heart. Like this,” you touch your thumb to the heart on Eloise’s hand, smiling at her gently.

Eloise sniffles. “Mommy’s in the heart?” She looks up at Emily.

“I’m in the heart,” Emily agrees softly, wiping a wayward tear from the corner of her eye. “And you’re in my heart, too, see?” She turns her hand.

Eloise presses her thumb to the sticker. Her pout gives and she smiles, one of Emily’s dimples digging into her cheek. “You’re in the heart!” She giggles, throwing her arms around Emily’s neck again.

“That’s right.” Emily kisses her forehead, the tightness in her chest loosening. Her eyes meet yours and you wink. She blows out a sigh, squeezing her daughter before preparing herself to let go. “I’ll pick you up from preschool today, okay Eloise?”

“Okay Mommy.”

“I’ll see you soon. Be a good girl, sweetheart.” She says as she leans over to you and eases her into your arms. Eloise doesn’t protest this time, settling into your chest quietly as she looks down at the heart.

Emily knows she’s late, but since she already is, she takes a moment to bend down a little, curling her finger gently under her daughter’s chin to tip it up. “I love you, baby,” she murmurs and kisses her cheek as Eloise mumbles a response.

Straightening, Emily reaches for you. “Love you, sweetheart,” she gives you a quick kiss, her hand gratefully squeezing your waist. “You’re a lifesaver.” She breathes; quietly, just for you.

“I know I am,” you wink. Taking her hand off your waist, you gently kiss her ring—your own version of a sticker heart. “Now go, you’re late.”

This time, when Emily reaches for the door, there’s no one there to hold her back.

“Bye Mommy!” Eloise waves from your arms. You stifle a smile into her hair, your hand lifting in a small wave of your own.

“Bye Eloise.” Emily waves back, her chest squeezing again as she forces herself to step out of the comfort of her home.

She walks into work eight minutes late with a scowl on her face, a damp patch on her clothes, and a red heart on the back of her hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbles to Hotch when she walks into the round table room. His eyes fall to the heart on her hand and he nods, not giving her any usual reprimand as she takes her seat. Emily’s grateful for that, but while he gets the hint, Morgan doesn’t.

He nudges her when they’re back at their desks. “Hotch didn’t even tell you off today. I think he’s going sweet on you, princess—”

“Not today, Morgan.” She snaps, his teasing tone grating against her nerves. Her mouth sets into a firm line when she catches the picture of you and Eloise on her desk.

He leaves her alone after that.

It’s a paperwork day, and for the first time in ever, she’s glad for it as she sinks into her thoughts. Her pen taps against her file as she replays the morning, rethinks her job, reiterates to herself—or tries to—that it’s just a phase, more to do with her daughter’s clinginess than her work hours. Still, the thoughts don’t leave her. It’s a miracle she manages to get anything done by the time Eloise’s preschool lets out and she’s getting up from her desk, tossing her purse over her shoulder and catching sight of the heart in her hand.

All the tension in her loosens when Eloise skips into her arms, beaming as her pigtails bounce.

“Mommy!”

Emily scoops her up into her chest. “Hi, baby.” She kisses her forehead, hot from the sun, and shifts her more securely on her hip. “Did you have a good day?”

“Uh-huh,” Eloise says. Her fingers hook in the chain of Emily’s necklace. “Lily got me cookies!”

“Oh, she did? That’s nice, did they taste good?” She asks. Eloise nods happily and Emily tugs gently on a pigtail, “We’ll have to make some and share with her tomorrow, what do you think?”

“With chocolate chips?” Eloise turns her wide eyes to her mother.

“Of course with chocolate chips,” Emily agrees, every muscle unwinding at the sound of her daughter’s sweet voice. “We can’t have cookies without chocolate chips.” They reach the car and she opens the door, settling Eloise into her car seat.

As she buckles her in, Emily catches sight of the heart sticker on the back of her small hand. “So, did you miss me today?” She asks playfully.

“No,” Eloise says.

“Oh.” Emily’s brows furrow. As sweet as her daughter is, she is a toddler, something Emily is reminded of every time she forgets. A chuckle slips past her lips as she shakes her head, “Well, I did—”

“You were here,” Eloise interrupts, pointing to the heart on the back of her hand.

Emily smiles softly. “That’s right,” she laughs. “I was with you the whole time. But you know what, Ellie Bellie?” Her fingers skate over Eloise’s stomach, gently tickling her until her girl starts laughing, “I still missed you anyway. Even though you were with me.”

Eloise looks up at her as she kisses her forehead. “Missed ’gio,” she says.

“Oh you missed him did you? I can never win when it comes to him.” Emily mock tsks, but she’s smiling as she shuts the back door closed. She slides into the driver’s seat and flicks her eyes up to the rearview mirror, instinctively checking on Eloise as she buckles her seatbelt. She turns on the car and drives off, any remaining tension melting off her body when she catches sight of the ring on her finger, the reminder of you and home just a few minutes away.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics

#emily prentiss #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x y/n #emily prentiss x you #emily prentiss fics #emily prentiss fanfic #emily prentiss fic #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss drabble #emily prentiss blurb #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfic #fic #momily #mom!emily #divider by saradika

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lupinqs · 4 months ago

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SAFE AND SOUND (1/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 10.1K

☆ ━ warnings: nothing yet really, should all be in the next chapter lol

☆ ━ links: part two, part three, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: if i had a nickel for every time i wrote one of my ships going to the hunger games together, i’d have two nickels. which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice 🧐 obviously this is a hunger games au so if you haven’t read the book or seen the movie or are not familiar with the premise, i don’t know how well you’ll be able to understand. alsoooo this part is lowkey very much buildup and not actual pazzi just mostly azzi; it was meant to be one whole part but it would’ve been too damn long so i split it!

“AZZI FUDD.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, everything stops. The world around her seems to freeze in time. Lucia Bliss, the escort from District Nine, says the name with a certain flair, her voice high-pitched and breathy, as if this is a celebration instead of a death sentence. Lucia’s purple hair gleams under the harsh midday sun, her too-bright smile a sick contrast to the crowd’s silence.

Azzi stands rooted to the ground. Her heart slams in her chest, and her vision narrows as shock seeps through her bones. She can’t move, can’t breathe. Her body is disconnected from her mind, numbness spreading through her limbs. She vaguely registers the weight of the stares from the girls around her—some wide-eyed with horror, others carefully blank. Azzi blinks. Is this real? She swallows hard, but her throat feels like sandpaper.

She never let herself think about this. Never allowed the possibility to take root. She spent the whole week worrying about her little brothers, Jon and Jose, her anxiety circling around them like a storm cloud. Jose, especially. It’s his first Reaping, and he’d been so scared he couldn’t sleep the night before. Azzi had promised him it’d be okay, that the odds were in their favor. She’d lied. And now it’s her name that hangs in the air.

Her legs feel heavy, like they’ve been weighed down with stones, but somehow, she forces them to move. One step. Then another. Each movement is stiff, mechanical, her body obeying while her mind is still reeling. The faces in the crowd blur into a mass of pale colors, and Azzi avoids looking at any of them directly. The sun presses down on her back, making her skin feel tight, suffocating, but she barely registers it. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears, a dull roar that drowns out everything else.

I have to do this. She repeats it in her head, over and over, as if it will numb the panic creeping up her spine. I have to get up there.

The platform is higher than it looks. It looms above her as she approaches, and the closer she gets, the more she feels the weight of the district watching her. Her hands tremble at her sides, but she keeps them balled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She can’t afford to show fear. Not now.

She steps onto the stage, the wooden floor creaking beneath her shoes. Lucia Bliss beams at her, all synthetic kindness and hollow enthusiasm, like she’s completely oblivious to the fact that she’s sending a sixteen-year-old girl to her death. Azzi wants to scream, to shout at her, to demand to know how she can smile like that. Instead, she stands there, stiff as a board, staring blankly into the crowd.

She doesn’t look at her family. Not yet. If she lets herself see them—really see them—she knows she’ll fall apart. And she can’t afford to break down, not in front of everyone. Not here. The numbness is the only thing keeping her from collapsing.

“Now, for the boys!” Lucia announces, with that same bright cheeriness, like this is all just a grand spectacle and not a nightmare come to life.

The second name is pulled, and Azzi barely registers the sound of the boy’s name. “Kellan Ryder.”

Her eyes catch a glimpse of him as he stumbles forward—a scrawny boy with messy red hair and too-thin arms. He looks no older than fourteen, maybe fifteen at most. His face is pale, his mouth set in a tight line as he walks toward the platform like a condemned man heading to the gallows. There’s no strength in him, no fire. He’s shaking like a leaf, and Azzi knows his fate immediately. Anyone with a brain should. He won’t make it.

Kellan’s knees wobble as he climbs onto the platform, nearly tripping on the last step. His frightened eyes dart around, but when they meet Azzi’s for a fleeting moment, she sees it—the absolute terror, the resignation that’s already settled in him. He knows he’s dead. And now, she’s tethered to him.

Lucia claps her hands together, looking as if she expects the crowd to erupt into applause, but no one moves. District Nine never claps at the Reaping. There’s nothing to celebrate here.

Azzi’s jaw tightens, her hands still clenched at her sides. What now? What happens next? She can’t feel anything except a dull, creeping fear gnawing at the edges of her consciousness. It’s been less than five minutes since her name was called, but it feels like an eternity has passed. She feels lost, unmoored, floating in a space where time no longer makes sense.

As the anthem blares across the square, she chances a glance into the crowd—just for a second. Her gaze locks onto her family. Her mom is there, her face pale but strong. Azzi’s dad stands right next to her, an arm around her waist. They wear the same firm expressions—like they may actually believe their daughter can make it through this. Azzi can’t find Jon and Jose—they’re somewhere within the rest of the relieved crowd of boys who have been spared this year.

Lucia is speaking again, but Azzi barely hears her. The words are muffled, distant, as she’s ushered off the stage and into the cold interior of the Justice Building. Her chest feels tight, her throat burning from holding back everything that’s clawing at her insides, threatening to break free. She can’t let them see her cry.

Inside the Justice Building, it’s quieter, but the silence only makes her pulse race faster. She’s taken to a small room to wait. The goodbyes. They give her only a few minutes with her family before she’s whisked away forever.

Her mother is the first to come in, and the second the door closes behind her, the stoic mask she’s been holding up crumbles. She rushes forward and pulls Azzi into a bone-crushing hug. Katie Fudd does not shed any tears, but Azzi can feel her shaking against her shoulder. Trembling, but trying to fight it.

“You’re going to come back,” her mother says firmly, as if she’s manifesting it into existence. And then, more choked: “Please, Azzi. You have to come back.”

Azzi stands stiffly for a moment, then wraps her arms around her mother. She wants to promise that she’ll come back, that she’ll survive, but the words stick in her throat. How can she make a promise like that when she doesn’t know if she can keep it?

“I’ll try,” Azzi says instead, her voice hollow. I’ll try. It’s all she can offer.

Her brothers come in next, Jon leading Jose. The second Jose sees her, he runs to her, clinging to her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. His face is streaked with tears, his breath coming in ragged sobs.

“You’re gonna come back, right?” Jose’s voice is small, broken. Azzi’s reminded that he’s only twelve. “You have to come back.”

Azzi pulls away slightly, brushing the hair out of his face. “I’ll do my best,” she whispers, her voice trembling. She can’t say anything more than that. She wishes she could lie, give him something more hopeful, but the truth is all she has.

Jon is much quieter, and he stands back, his face hard as stone. But his eyes—his eyes are full of pain, full of everything he’s trying not to feel. When he finally steps forward, he pulls her into a tight hug, whispering in her ear, “Please try to come home.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to respond.

And then it’s her dad that gets her last, his arms wrapping around her softer, less firm. He rubs a hand along her back, rests his chin on top of her head. It makes Azzi want to cry. But she doesn’t. She keeps the tears in. Tim tells her, “Be smart. Don’t trust anyone.” And then he pulls away, meeting her gaze. His eyes aren’t sad, they don’t memorize the lines of her face as if this is likely the last time they’ll ever see each other. Instead, they’re firm, a fire burning in them, a fire that believes Azzi has enough spark in her to win. “You’re strong, Az. You find what you’re good at, and you stick to it. Just like shooting.”

Azzi nods, though his words don’t truly reach her. She’s good at basketball—great, even. The best shooter in her district. But the Hunger Games isn’t basketball. It’s entirely different.

The goodbye is over too quickly, the Peacekeepers ushering her family out of the room, their voices echoing down the hall. As the door closes behind them, the reality of the situation hits her with full force. This is happening. This is real. There’s no way out of it. In just a few days, she’ll be in the arena, and all that will matter is survival.

Azzi takes a deep breath, her hands trembling. She has to survive. For her family. For her mom. For her dad. For Jon and Jose. I have to win.

But as the cold emptiness settles into her chest, she knows it’s not going to be that simple. Not even close.

THE ROOM in the Capitol’s Remake Center is pristine and clinical—too clean, in fact. The walls are bright white, and the overhead lights are too harsh, casting everything in an almost sterile glow. The faint hum of machinery buzzes in the background, and Azzi sits stiffly on the plush chair in the center of the room, her back straight and hands clenched in her lap. She can feel the cold, unfamiliar air of the Capitol against her skin, a far cry from the familiar, earthy smells of District Nine. The whole place feels wrong.

Azzi’s mind is still spinning from the events of the past day, from the Reaping to the train ride to the Capitol. Everything feels like a blur—one unending nightmare she can’t escape from. The vibrant, colorful city that’s supposed to be awe-inspiring feels nothing more than a glittering cage, trapping her in a world that doesn’t belong to her.

A knock at the door startles her from her thoughts, and she straightens, her heart thudding a little harder in her chest. The door opens, and in walks a tall, slender woman with dark, shimmering hair cut into a sleek bob. Her skin is flawless, glowing in the artificial light, and she’s dressed in an outfit that’s both futuristic and elegant, all smooth lines and shimmering fabric.

She strides into the room with the kind of confidence Azzi has only ever seen in Capitol citizens, her heels clicking against the floor. When she reaches Azzi, she extends a perfectly manicured hand and offers a soft, warm smile.

“Hello, Azzi. I’m Seraphine,” she says, her voice gentle, as though she knows how jarring this experience must be. “I’ll be your stylist for the Games.”

Azzi stares at Seraphine’s hand for a second too long before realizing she’s supposed to shake it. Her fingers feel cold as she grips the stylist’s hand briefly, then pulls away, her eyes flickering nervously to the floor. She hasn’t said a word since entering the Remake Center, and even now, her throat feels tight, like it’s closed off from the weight of everything around her.

Seraphine seems to notice Azzi’s discomfort and doesn’t push her to speak. Instead, she walks around the chair, studying Azzi with a critical yet kind eye, taking in her features as if she’s a sculpture being examined for the first time.

“You’ve got very strong features,” Seraphine says, her voice soft as she moves to stand in front of Azzi. She lifts a hand, her finger tracing the air just in front of Azzi’s face as if imagining her canvas. “A really beautiful face. Great symmetry. Your nose is perfect—straight, but with just a little softness at the tip. And your lips,” she smiles, “plump and well-shaped, the kind people pay for here in the Capitol.”

Azzi doesn’t know what to say. She swallows hard and forces out a quiet, “Thank you.”

But the words feel hollow in her mouth. Two days ago, she probably would’ve flushed at the compliment and grinned at the woman before her. But it doesn’t matter now. Being beautiful won’t keep her alive. It won’t stop a sword or a spear. It won’t protect her when she’s standing in the arena, staring down a tribute who wants her dead. She doesn’t care about her looks. She cares about surviving.

Seraphine seems to sense the tension in her, but she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she steps back and claps her hands together, her expression shifting into something more professional. “Well, we’ve got a lot to do before the Opening Ceremony tonight. The tributes from District Nine usually get an agricultural theme, but we’re going to make sure you stand out. You’ll need something that catches the eye, something that makes people remember you. The Capitol loves a good first impression.”

Azzi tries to focus on what Seraphine is saying, but her mind keeps drifting, her thoughts pulling her back to District Nine, to the faces of her brothers, her parents, their small home nestled in the farthest corner of the district. She feels like she’s been dropped into an alien world, surrounded by people who don’t understand what it means to fight for survival. Here, everything is about image—how you look, how you present yourself. But in the Games, none of that matters. At least, not to Azzi.

Seraphine motions for Azzi to stand, and she does so stiffly, her muscles aching from sitting so rigidly for so long. The stylist begins to circle her, appraising her figure and murmuring to herself. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, Seraphine snaps her fingers, and a team of assistants rushes in, carrying bolts of fabric and strange devices Azzi doesn’t recognize.

Seraphine smiles softly, her fingers brushing against Azzi’s shoulder. “We’re going to make you look incredible. Trust me, Azzi. I’ve been doing this for years.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She lets the team of assistants work on her, trying not to flinch as they run strange tools across her skin, smoothing it, shaping it. They tug at her hair, pulling it back tightly from her face, and apply makeup to her cheeks and eyes. She’s never worn anything like this before, and the sensation of it all feels foreign, uncomfortable. The air smells heavily of perfume and hair products, nothing like the open fields and fresh earth of her home.

Seraphine watches closely, making small adjustments as the assistants work. “We’ll keep it simple but striking,” she says as she examines the fabrics. “District Nine is about agriculture, the backbone of Panem’s food production. So we’ll lean into that, but in a way that makes you look powerful. Strong. Like someone the Capitol will want to root for.”

Azzi barely nods, her mind half-absent.

The assistants pull out a long, flowing piece of fabric, the color a rich golden hue that shimmers in the light. It’s embroidered with intricate patterns, resembling the fields of grain District Nine is known for. The material clings to her body, forming into a fitted jumpsuit that accentuates her athletic build. The design is sleek and modern, with a slight flare at the shoulders, giving her the appearance of strength, while the fabric flows behind her like a cape made of golden wheat.

Seraphine steps back, admiring the final look, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “You look incredible, Azzi. Absolutely stunning. This will make the audience remember you—beautiful, but more importantly, formidable.”

Azzi stares at herself in the mirror, her reflection almost unrecognizable. The girl looking back at her is a Capitol version of herself, someone polished and made to look like she belongs here. But Azzi can see right through it. She doesn’t belong here.

“How do you feel?” Seraphine asks, stepping up beside her.

Azzi hesitates, her eyes lingering on her reflection. She looks strong, she looks like someone people might fear. But the question gnaws at her, the same thought that’s been looping in her head since she arrived at the Capitol.

“Being beautiful won’t help me in the arena,” she says quietly, her voice low, as if the thought escapes her without permission.

Seraphine’s expression softens, and she places a hand gently on Azzi’s shoulder. “It’s not just about beauty. It’s about presence. The Capitol citizens, the sponsors—they want someone they can believe in. If they believe in you, they’ll help you. They’ll send you things you need. And that could be the difference between life and death.”

Azzi doesn’t know how to respond to that. She’s never thought about it that way—never considered that people watching her might care enough to help. She doesn’t know if she likes that idea, though. It feels too distant, too detached. How can she trust that some faceless audience in the Capitol will care enough to keep her alive?

But she nods anyway, her jaw tight as she looks back at her reflection. “I guess.”

Seraphine gives her a reassuring smile, but Azzi can see the flicker of something else in the stylist’s eyes. Maybe a recognition of the bleakness that comes with the Games. Or maybe just sympathy. Either way, it doesn’t change the reality.

And then Seraphine is clapping her hands again, signaling the rush of assistants and stylists bustling back into the room. They tidy up the last few details, adjusting the cape of shimmering gold fabric that flows behind Azzi, smoothing out any wrinkles in the intricate embroidery of her jumpsuit. The noise, the movement, all of it feels overwhelming, but Seraphine stays calm and poised, giving Azzi a reassuring smile before gesturing toward the door.

“Come, Azzi. We need to head downstairs. Your chariot awaits,” Seraphine says.

Azzi’s legs feel unsteady as she follows her stylist. There’s a gnawing anxiety low in her stomach, a knot that’s only been growing tighter since her name was pulled. She walks behind Seraphine, out of the room and down a long, marble hallway that echoes with the click of the stylist’s heels. The air feels heavier here, the anticipation hanging thick in the space around them as they make their way to the first floor.

The elevator doors open, revealing the Remake Center’s ground floor—a massive, gleaming stable. The smell of horses hits her first, a sharp contrast to the sterile air of the upper floors. The space is wide and open, filled with row after row of chariots, each one assigned to a different district, waiting to carry their tributes into the Opening Ceremony. It’s loud, too, with the sound of people bustling around, prepping the tributes, adjusting the horses’ harnesses, and giving last-minute instructions.

Azzi’s eyes dart around, searching for Kellan, her district partner. She spots him off to the side, standing next to one of the chariots, his eyes wide with fear and his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible. He looks terrible, Azzi thinks, her heart twisting in her chest. Kellan is so young—fourteen—the same age as her little brother Jon.

In fact, Kellan could’ve been Jon. Could’ve been Jose. The thought makes her feel sick. He’s just a kid. And now he’s about to be thrown into a fight to the death.

Azzi’s stomach churns as she approaches Kellan, trying to think of something to say, something that might ease his nerves, but nothing comes to mind. What can she say? You’ll be fine? It won’t be that bad? It would be a lie. There’s no comforting truth here.

Lucia is already there, too, flitting around with her usual enthusiasm. Her bright purple wig bounces as she talks, gesturing wildly with her hands. She’s all Capitol—flashy and clueless, too caught up in the spectacle of it all to realize what’s really at stake.

“Ah, Azzi! You look fan-tastic!” Lucia exclaims, clucking her tongue and clapping her hands together. “Seraphine has really outdone herself this year.”

Azzi gives a stiff nod, but her attention is drawn to the figure standing next to Lucia.

Their mentor—Cyrus.

A tall, grizzled man in his mid-forties, Cyrus won the Games when he was seventeen, Azzi knows that. His hair is streaked with silver now, and his face is lined with years of bitterness and loss—an expression she’s come to recognize in former victors. Cyrus isn’t the warmest person, but he knows what it takes to survive, and that’s all that matters to Azzi now.

He steps forward, eyeing her and Kellan critically, his arms crossed over his broad chest. “You both look good,” he says, his voice gruff, as if the compliment costs him something. “But this isn’t about just looking good. It’s about making the Capitol love you. You need them on your side, or you’re dead in the water.”

Kellan swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the chariots. Azzi can see his hands trembling slightly at his sides, and again, that pang of guilt hits her. He shouldn’t be here. He’s too young.

So is Azzi. So is every other tribute here.

Cyrus doesn’t seem to notice Kallan’s behavior—or if he does, he doesn’t care. He steps closer, his voice dropping into a low, urgent tone. “When you get out there, you smile. You wave. You make sure they see you, like you’re already a victor. The crowd loves confidence. They love tributes who look like they’ll win, not ones who are scared to death.” His eyes flick to Kellan, lingering for a second too long. “So you both smile. Got it?”

Azzi nods, even though the last thing she wants to do is smile right now. But Cyrus is right. They have to play the game, even here.

She turns her head slightly, trying to shake off the weight of the moment when something—or someone—catches her eye.

Just across the stable, standing next to another chariot with her district partner, is a girl. She’s tall for a girl, like Azzi is, with long blonde hair that’s been braided back into a bun. Her outfit is clearly themed around District Seven—lumber—and it’s made of rich brown leather, like freshly cut wood, with patterns that resemble tree bark. But what stands out most to Azzi isn’t the outfit. It’s her face.

The girl’s features are sharp but soft in all the right places. She has a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to flicker with something unspoken. She’s pretty—beautiful, even—but not in the overdone, Capitol way. There’s something natural about her beauty, something real.

Azzi’s breath catches in her throat as their eyes meet. For a moment, the noise of the stable fades into the background, and all she can hear is the pounding of her heart in her chest. The girl holds her gaze, her expression unreadable but intense, like she’s studying Azzi just as much as Azzi is studying her.

This girl is another tribute. Another person Azzi might have to kill. But the thought doesn’t stop her from staring a second too long, from letting herself get caught in the girl’s gaze.

It’s only when Cyrus barks something at them that Azzi snaps her head back around, her cheeks flushing as she tries to focus. This isn’t the time for distractions.

She forces her attention back to Cyrus as he continues giving them last-minute instructions. “Smile. Wave. Make them love you. Got it?”

Azzi nods, though her thoughts are still jumbled. She glances at Kellan, who’s biting his lip nervously, his eyes darting around the stable like a rabbit caught in a trap.

And then they’re being ushered toward their chariot. Azzi takes a deep breath, her legs feeling wobbly as she steps onto the platform, Kellan following behind her. The horses, sleek and muscular, are restless in front of them, their hooves clattering against the marble floor. She grips the edge of the chariot tightly, her knuckles turning white.

As the chariots begin to roll out, Azzi takes one more deep breath. She can hear the roar of the crowd growing louder, the excitement building as the tributes are about to make their grand entrance.

The moment they roll into view of the massive audience, the noise is deafening. The Capitol citizens cheer and shout, their brightly colored hair and outrageous outfits blending together into a sea of vibrant chaos. Azzi forces herself to smile, just like instructed, letting her dimples show through as she waves to the crowd, her arm moving mechanically as if on autopilot. She hates it—the way their eyes are all on her, the way they’re watching her as if she’s nothing more than a piece in their twisted game.

She’s never wanted attention like this. The only way she’d ever dreamed of being noticed was by playing basketball, maybe one day making it big enough to play in the Capitol’s professional leagues. But that was a stupid dream—something far out of reach for someone from a District. Even if she won the Games, even if she became a Capitol darling, she’d never be allowed to play. The basketball leagues are for Capitol citizens, not for tributes. Not for people like her.

Azzi keeps smiling, keeps waving, even though every second of it feels wrong. The crowd’s cheers grow louder, their excitement palpable, but Azzi feels nothing. All she can think about is the girl from District Seven—the girl whose eyes she can still feel on her, even now, as the chariots roll forward.

IT’S THE second day of training. Yesterday, Azzi found her strength—throwing knives. It was quick; the dagger was the first weapon she picked up and tried. And it just… worked. It surprised her at first, but as the blades left her hand, spinning in the air before sinking into the target with a solid thud, it felt almost familiar. The motion, the precision, the focus—it all reminds her of shooting a basketball. In her mind, it’s the same concept: aim, release, make the shot. Whether it’s a knife sinking into a dummy or a ball swooshing through a hoop, the goal is the same. And it comforts her in a strange way, turning something deadly into something she’s used to, something she can control.

Now, Azzi stands several feet away from a dummy, gripping a knife, the handle cool against her palm. She lines it up with the target. Her muscles tighten as she flicks her wrist, releasing the dagger. It slices through the air, embedding itself into where the heart of the dummy would be with a satisfying thud. A perfect hit. She lets out a slow breath, allowing a small flicker of satisfaction to cross her face. The trainers don’t miss it either, nodding with approval as they observe her from across the room.

Cyrus, her mentor, has been watching her closely since she got here. And, after Azzi informed him of her successes with the daggers last night and his compliments of her physique, the true muscle she has, it’s been clear he’s placing his bets on Azzi this time around. It seems there’s just no point in trying with Kellan.

As for Kellan, he hasn’t said much of anything since they were whisked away to the Capitol. He’s just a boy, and Azzi has watched the fear in his eyes grow with each passing day. Cyrus has tried to train him, to offer him advice, but Kellan’s barely even listened. It’s as if he’s already given up. Azzi sees it in the way his hands tremble whenever he holds a weapon, the way he flinches during combat drills, and the way he refuses to meet anyone’s gaze. He’s already dead in his mind, and Azzi knows that mentality will get him killed in the arena.

“Focus on yourself,” Cyrus had told her bluntly last night after dinner. “Kellan’s not gonna make it. You need to accept that now.”

Azzi had nodded, the truth of Cyrus’ words sitting like a heavy weight in her chest. She tried talking to Kellan once, offering him a few words of encouragement, but he barely even acknowledged her. After that, she stopped trying. She can’t afford to waste time or energy on someone who’s already checked out. It isn’t like she doesn’t feel guilty—she does—but she has to survive.

She can’t focus on anyone else’s survival but her own.

Today, Cyrus has her focusing on something other than knives. “You’ve got those down,” he’d told her before the session. “Learn how to survive the elements now. Plants, food, water. You need to know what’s safe and what isn’t. Most tributes die from hunger, dehydration—not all of it is blood and guts.”

So Azzi finds herself crouched in front of an information station, its holographic displays showing various plants, fruits, and fungi. She taps the screen, cycling through images of plants she might find in the arena, trying to commit them to memory. Which ones are edible, which ones are poisonous, which ones could be used to heal wounds. It’s not as exciting as knife-throwing, but it’s necessary, and she knows it.

She’s absorbed in her study, staring intently at a particularly nasty-looking mushroom, when she senses someone approaching from the side. Her muscles tense instinctively, and she glances up, prepared to brush off whoever it is—until she sees Paige Bueckers standing next to her.

Paige Bueckers. District Seven. Azzi knows who she is. She’s memorized all the tributes’ names and districts by now—it’s smart to know who she’s up against—but Paige was the first one she committed to memory. Maybe it’s because of the way Paige caught her eye before the opening ceremony, their silent exchange of glances lingering in Azzi’s mind longer than she’d like to admit. Or maybe it’s because she’s watched Paige train over the past two days and realized just how dangerous the girl really is. Azzi saw her with a sword earlier, moving with a deadly grace that sent chills down her spine. Paige might be one of the most skilled tributes here, and that’s saying something.

Paige is tall, even a little taller than Azzi, and her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail, a thin, black headband resting over it. Her sharp, blue eyes meet Azzi’s as she stops next to her, wearing a grin that seems completely out of place in the tense, competitive atmosphere of the training center.

“Azzi Fudd,” Paige says, her tone casual, as if they’re not preparing to kill each other in a matter of days. “District Nine.”

Azzi glances back at the screen, her brows furrowing slightly. She doesn’t know how to feel about Paige approaching her. She doesn’t know what she wants. This could be some kind of strategy—get close to your enemies, make them lower their guard. Azzi isn’t stupid. She knows better than to trust anyone here.

“Bueckers,” Azzi replies, her voice neutral, not giving anything away. She keeps her eyes on the screen, scrolling through more plant images.

But Paige doesn’t leave. She shifts her weight, bouncing slightly on her heels, like she can’t seem to stay still. The grin on her face widens, and Azzi feels even more confused. Why is Paige so friendly? Why is she smiling like they’re just two normal girls having a chat?

“So, you’re, like, really good with daggers, huh?” Paige says, her voice light. “I saw you throwing earlier. Pretty impressive.”

Azzi doesn’t look up. She sighs instead, her fingers hovering over the screen. “Guess so,” she mumbles. In the back of her mind, she knows she should probably be nicer. Paige might be trying to form an alliance, and with Kellan being a dead end, Azzi could use one. But trust is a luxury she can’t afford right now, and Paige’s enthusiasm throws her off.

Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s short response, though. She keeps standing there, grinning like an idiot, her eyes twinkling with some kind of amusement. It’s unnerving how at ease she seems, how… happy. It’s probably a mask. She’s probably as terrified as the rest of them, and she’s just getting through it in her own way.

Nevertheless, Azzi can’t take it anymore. She turns her head slightly, locking eyes with Paige. “Why are you talking to me?” she asks bluntly.

Paige blinks, her grin faltering for just a moment. For the first time, she looks a little unsure of herself. “Um… I don’t really know, actually,” she admits with a small, nervous laugh. “Just… wanted to, I guess.”

Azzi narrows her eyes, studying her. She has no idea if the girl before her is being honest. But the sincerity in her voice catches Azzi a little off guard, and for a second, she’s not sure what to say. This is the Hunger Games. No one talks to someone just because they “want to.” Everyone has an angle. Yet Paige stands there, looking oddly genuine, like she really doesn’t have a reason. Like she just wants to talk to Azzi, no strings attached.

For a moment, Azzi’s walls start to crack. She considers the possibility—however slim—that Paige is just… a good person. It doesn’t make sense, not in a place like this, but the warmth in Paige’s smile makes Azzi’s suspicion waver.

“Well,” Azzi finally says, her voice a little softer than before, “maybe you shouldn’t.” She doesn’t look away this time, her eyes lingering on Paige’s, almost like she’s testing her.

Paige’s grin returns, softer this time, but still there. “Maybe,” she says, “but I’m here anyway.”

Azzi shakes her head a little, gaze returning to the screen. She needs to focus on this, not the girl beside her.

Paige doesn’t seem to be deterred, though, still watching Azzi with that easy smile, her eyes bright. “You’re pretty serious, yeah?” she says, tilting her head, almost like she’s teasing but not quite. “Locked in. I get it. Gotta be. But… we’re all here, y'know? Same boat.”

Azzi shifts her weight, feeling her jaw tighten. “I have to be serious,” Azzi mutters, her fingers swiping across the screen, though she’s not really paying attention to the plants anymore. Her heart beats a little faster under Paige’s gaze. “You can’t survive if you’re not.”

Paige leans in just slightly, and Azzi catches the faint scent of something sweet on her, like flowers. “I know that,” she says, her tone softening for a moment. “But you might need some help in there—if you wanna win.”

Azzi’s shoulders tense. The suggestion makes her uneasy, and her instinct is to push back. Help. From anyone, it feels too dangerous. It feels like relying on someone she can’t control. She barely trusts herself in this place, let alone a girl from another district who, let’s be real, could very well end up as an enemy.

“I don’t need help,” Azzi says, her voice firmer than before. “Especially not from people I don’t know.”

Paige’s smile fades a little, but there’s no frustration in her expression. If anything, she just looks… thoughtful, almost curious about Azzi’s reaction. It’s like she’s trying to figure her out, trying to see beneath the guarded exterior.

Azzi hates that. She doesn’t want to be studied or analyzed, especially not by Paige Bueckers. She’s already doing too much of that herself—constantly assessing everyone, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, trying to predict who’s a threat and who might just fade into the background.

“I’m not trying to get in your way, Azzi,” Paige says quietly, her voice losing some of its earlier lightness. “But, y’know, maybe we don’t have to be enemies. I’ve seen you, and you’re good. Like, real good. And neither of us are Careers and both our district partners are kinda duds, so I just thought…”

Azzi cuts her off, turning to face her abruptly. “Thought what? That we’d be allies? Friends?” She shakes her head, ignoring the strange knot of tension building in her chest. Paige might be trying to help, but Azzi doesn’t want it. She can’t want it. Not here. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t work like that. Sorry.”

Paige stands there, still watching her, and for a second, Azzi thinks she sees something flicker in Paige’s eyes—disappointment, maybe, or understanding. But Paige doesn’t push back. She just nods once, a slow, thoughtful thing.

“Okay,” Paige says, stepping back a little, giving Azzi space. Her smile returns, softer, but still there. “I get it. Just… keep doin' what you’re good at.”

Azzi feels a strange pang in her chest as she watches Paige step away, like maybe she’s made a mistake. But no—she can’t think like that. She needs to stay focused, stay sharp, stay alone. That’s how she’ll survive.

Without another word, Azzi turns on her heel and walks away, her heart beating faster than before.

THE PINK dress hugs Azzi’s figure, its soft blush fabric shimmering under the bright lights of the dressing room. It’s not something she’s ever imagined herself wearing—not this shade, not this tight. She looks almost like a Capitol citizen now, polished and flawless in her own right.

The dress has a high neckline and delicate straps that crisscross her shoulders, falling in elegant folds down to her ankles. It’s simple, yet the color makes her stand out, glowing softly against her dark skin. Her hair is styled in loose waves, not unlike the Capitol’s obsession with effortless beauty, with the font pieces pulled back into braids. The makeup is light but dramatic—plump lips, accentuated cheekbones, and eyes that pop with a subtle pink shimmer.

Seraphine steps back, admiring her work with a satisfied smile. “You look stunning, Azzi. Like a dream.”

Azzi nods, not fully meeting Seraphine’s gaze. She knows she looks good, but it doesn’t feel like her. The face staring back at her in the mirror is a version of herself she doesn’t recognize. It’s not the Azzi from District Nine; it’s not the girl who shoots hoops with her brothers or helps her dad tend to the crops. It’s someone else—someone made for the Capitol’s stage. Someone for their entertainment.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, though her voice lacks enthusiasm. Seraphine doesn’t seem to mind. She knows by now that Azzi is serious, focused. There’s no time for compliments when the Games are looming.

Seraphine’s assistant adjusts the hem of Azzi’s dress one last time before stepping aside. “You’ll knock them dead,” she says with a wink, though the words sit heavy with the weight of their meaning. Knocking them dead. That’s quite literally what Azzi will have to do soon enough.

As she’s led out to the waiting area before the interviews, Azzi’s mind begins to drift. She thinks back to the training evaluations, how she had scored a 10—one of only four tributes to do so. A 10 is good, she knows that, but the competition is fierce. Both the girl and boy from Two scored 10s and Paige managed a 10 as well. There are other tributes with 9s, plenty who will be formidable in their own right. But Paige? Paige is different. She’s unpredictable, unnervingly skilled. And something about her makes Azzi feel a pang of unease.

As Azzi settles into her seat backstage, waiting for her interview with Caesar Flickerman, she watches the other tributes’ interviews on the screen. The Careers are all flashy and confident, playing up their deadliness to the crowd’s delight. Caesar eats it up, grinning and laughing as they boast about their skills and charm the Capitol audience. The boy from District Four also stands out—tall, muscular, and intimidating. A strong swimmer, no doubt. He’ll be dangerous, especially if the arena is at all water-based.

But none of them hold a candle to Paige.

When Paige steps onto the stage, it’s as if the entire room shifts. She looks stunning, effortlessly cool, in a crisp white suit that contrasts sharply with the frilly dresses most of the other girls have chosen. Her hair is down, styled in soft, wavy locks, with the top half pulled back in a way that highlights her sharp features. She looks more masculine than the other girls, but somehow that works in her favor. It’s not just that she’s different—it’s that she owns it. The Capitol loves different.

Azzi watches, unable to tear her eyes away, as Paige charms the entire crowd. She’s funny, confident, and just the right amount of cocky. Caesar practically beams at her, and the audience is eating out of the palm of her hand.

“You’re quite the swordswoman,” Caesar says, raising his eyebrows in admiration. “I saw your score, Paige—a 10! That’s incredible.”

Paige just grins, shrugging casually. “You know, I try.”

The crowd laughs, and Cyrus begins to mutter under his breath. “Damn it,” he says, shaking his head as he runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “She’s going to have sponsors lined up around the block.”

Azzi knows he’s right. Paige isn’t just skilled—she’s magnetic. People want to root for her. She’s dangerous, yes, but she’s also got this charm that makes you want to see her win, even if that means she’ll be killing people to get there.

Azzi swallows hard, feeling a knot form in her stomach. As much as she doesn’t want to admit it, she’s drawn to Paige, too. There’s something about her that pulls Azzi in—her confidence, her grace under pressure, her ease in the face of what’s to come. It’s not just attraction, though she can’t deny that Paige is beautiful. It’s more than that. There’s something about Paige that makes Azzi feel like she’s… alive. Like she’s not just surviving, but living fully in the moment, despite everything. Ironic, considering Paige could be the one to kill Azzi in that arena—or vice versa.

And Azzi hates that she feels this way. She shouldn’t be drawn to Paige. She shouldn’t be thinking about how Paige’s eyes had locked onto hers back at the opening ceremony, or how Paige had approached her during training, trying to talk like they were friends. None of it matters. Paige is just another tribute, another obstacle standing between Azzi and survival.

But still… there’s something about her.

As Paige’s interview wraps up, the crowd erupts in applause, and Caesar gives her a hug before she leaves the stage. Azzi watches as Paige walks off, her suit practically glowing under the stage lights. For a brief moment, Paige glances in Azzi’s direction, their eyes meeting across the room. It’s quick—just a fleeting second—but Azzi feels her heart skip a beat before she looks away, reminding herself why she’s here.

Just two interviews later, Azzi is taking a deep breath as the lights hit her, stepping forward onto the stage. The crowd is massive, louder than she imagined, and their cheers seem to echo in her chest. Her eyes land on Caesar Flickerman, who’s grinning wide at her as she approaches him, his flamboyant suit sparkling under the stage lights.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Azzi Fudd from District Nine!” Caesar announces, and the crowd’s cheers grow even louder.

Azzi sits down next to Caesar, her fingers resting awkwardly in her lap. Despite the excitement around her, she feels the familiar nervousness bubbling up inside. This isn’t her element—talking, being the center of attention. She’d rather be on the sidelines, unnoticed, but here, there’s no avoiding it.

“Azzi, you look absolutely radiant tonight!” Caesar says, his voice warm and enthusiastic. “Tell me, how does it feel to be here in the Capitol, getting all this attention?”

Azzi smiles politely, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. “It’s… different,” she says softly. “I’m not really used to it. But it’s nice, I guess. Everyone’s been very kind.” Very kind because they probably know I’ll be dead in a couple weeks.

Caesar nods, leaning in slightly. “I can imagine it’s quite a change from life in District 9. Tell me, what’s life like back home?”

Azzi pauses, her mind drifting back to the open fields and the quiet days of working alongside her family. “It’s simple,” she says. “We work hard, but it’s peaceful. Most of my days I’m just spending time with my family, doing the chores or playing basketball. It’s nothing like here, but it’s home.”

Caesar smiles warmly, sensing the connection she has to her district. “Family, huh? I bet they’re watching right now, rooting for you. Tell me, do you have a big family?”

Azzi shrugs a little. “Not too big, not too small, I think. There’s my parents, and then I have two younger brothers. And we’re still very close to my grandparents. I just… love my family, they’re very supportive. They’re great.” She feels her throat get choked up by the end of the sentence, not wanting to think too much about her family, how much she misses them. Even though, truthfully, she knows she should be thinking about her family because that is what needs to be her motivation. She needs to win this for them, no matter how impossible it may seem.

The crowd gives a soft murmur of approval, and Caesar’s grin widens. “That’s wonderful. Sounds like you’ve got a lot of people cheering you on back home. And speaking of support…” He pauses dramatically, the audience clearly hanging on his every word. “Any special someone out there you’re hoping to impress? Perhaps a crush back home?”

Azzi’s eyes widen a little at the question, feeling her face heat up. A crush. That is quite literally the last thing on her mind right now. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not sure how to answer without sounding awkward.

“I, um… no,” she says with a laugh that’s more nervous than she intended. “Not really. I’ve been focused on training, so… no time for that.”

Caesar laughs good-naturedly, waving a hand as if to brush off the question. “Oh, I get it, I get it! Training comes first, of course. But I’m sure there are plenty of admirers in the Capitol who are wishing they could get your attention.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, and Azzi can’t help but smile a little at their enthusiasm, though she still feels her nerves fluttering in her stomach.

“But let’s talk about something fun,” Caesar continues, changing gears smoothly. “You’ve been in the Capitol for a little while now. What’s your favorite part so far? The food? The fashion? The luxury?”

Azzi takes a moment to think, glancing down at her dress. It’s true, everything in the Capitol has been overwhelming—lavish and excessive compared to the modest life she’s known back in her district. But there’s one thing that stands out to her more than anything.

“The food,” she answers with a small smile. “I’ve never seen so much of it in my life. And it’s all so… colorful. I didn’t even know you could make food look like that.”

Caesar chuckles. “Colorful! I don’t think I’ve heard that one before.” He hits his knee as he laughs, the audience giggling with him. “But, yes! The Capitol chefs do love their extravagant dishes. Has there been anything in particular that’s caught your eye?”

“Honestly, the desserts,” Azzi admits, her smile widening. “There was this cake we had the other night, and it was shaped like a swan. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was so good.”

The crowd laughs once more, clearly charmed by her innocence, and Caesar claps his hands together. “A girl after my own heart! Who can resist a good dessert, right?”

Azzi relaxes a little more, finding it easier to talk now that the conversation has shifted to lighter topics. Caesar’s friendliness helps, and she realizes that, for the first time, the crowd isn’t as intimidating as she thought they’d be.

“You know, Azzi,” Caesar says, his tone softening just a bit, “you’ve got this quiet strength about you. I think a lot of people are really drawn to that. You don’t need to be loud or flashy to make an impact. And clearly you have made an impact—you scored a ten in the training. I mean, come on!”

Azzi smiles a little bit at the validation, her dimples poking through. “Thank you,” she says, nodding. And then she shrugs, her lips quirking up a little further as she adds, “I try.”

Caesar and the crowd chuckle at the action. “Well, you’ve certainly done well,” he tells her earnestly, before adding, with a wink, “And I have to say, your smile is absolutely infectious. I think you’ve got the whole crowd wrapped around your finger.”

The audience cheers again, louder this time, and Azzi feels her face heat up.

“Well, Azzi, it’s been an absolute pleasure talking to you tonight,” Caesar says, standing and offering his hand to help her up. “I think I speak for everyone when I say we’re all rooting for you.”

Azzi stands, shaking Caesar’s hand and giving the crowd a small wave as they erupt into applause. As she walks off the stage, back to where Seraphine, Lucia, and Cyrus are waiting, the adrenaline from the interview still buzzes through her.

Lucia beams at her as she approaches, her hands rushing to cup Azzi’s cheeks. “You were perfect, Azzi! Absolutely perfect.”

Seraphine nods in agreement. “The crowd loves you. You’re going to get so many sponsors, I just know it.”

Even Cyrus gives her a rare grin, clapping her on the shoulder. “You did good out there, kid. Real good. I think you’ve got them in the palm of your hand now.”

Azzi lets out a breath, the tension slowly leaving her body as she realizes she’s done it. She got through the interview, and didn’t just survive it—she actually made a connection, made herself heard and liked. The Capitol might not feel like home, but for now, at least, she knows she’s done everything she can to stand out in the best way possible.

THE MORNING is unnervingly quiet. Azzi walks beside Cyrus, the soles of her shoes barely making a sound on the sleek marble floors of the Capitol building. They’re headed toward the hovercraft, the final step before the arena. The place where everything will change. Each step closer feels heavier, the weight of what’s coming settling into her bones.

Cyrus walks just ahead, his brow furrowed in thought. Azzi knows well enough that he’s not the type for overly emotional goodbyes, but there’s a seriousness to him today that wasn’t there during training. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and Azzi notices the faint lines of tension in his jaw. She’s quiet, still processing the fact that in just a few hours, she’ll be fighting for her life.

As they near the docking area, Cyrus stops abruptly, turning to face her. His eyes are sharp, cutting through the nervous haze that’s settled over her.

“Listen to me, Azzi,” he begins, voice low but firm. “This is it. From here on out, it’s all strategy. Everything you do, every move you make—it has to be calculated, smart.”

Azzi nods, her throat tightening as she listens.

“I know it’s not in your nature to trust easily, but in the arena, you’ll need to be even more cautious,” he continues. “Don’t form alliances unless it’s strategically sound. I don’t care if they seem friendly or if they remind you of someone from back home—trust no one unless it gives you an advantage.”

His words cut deep, and she swallows hard. She hasn’t really thought much about alliances, but it’s clear that Cyrus has. He knows this game inside and out.

“And whatever you do, keep your emotions in check,” Cyrus adds, his gaze hardening. “The moment you start caring too much about anyone in there, you’ve already lost. I know you’re good-hearted, Azzi, but that’s not going to save you—not in the Games.”

She doesn’t say anything, just nods again. The lump in her throat grows as the reality of what’s coming washes over her.

“And the bloodbath.” Cyrus pauses, before his voice lowers slightly. “The moment those platforms rise, it’s going to be chaos. Don’t linger. Don’t get caught up in the fight unless it’s unavoidable. Get what you need and get out. Do you understand?”

Azzi meets his eyes, the weight of his words settling deep in her chest. “I understand,” she says softly.

He studies her for a moment, and for the first time since they arrived in the Capitol, Cyrus’s tough exterior seems to soften. His hand reaches out, resting on her shoulder, and the squeeze he gives is firm, reassuring.

“I believe in you,” he says quietly, his voice sincere. “You’re smart, and you’ve trained hard. I’m going to do everything in my power to help get you home.”

Her eyes well up slightly at his words, but she quickly blinks back the tears. She can’t afford to be emotional right now. There’s no space for it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, barely able to get the words out past the lump in her throat.

Cyrus nods once, and then he’s stepping back, his hand falling away from her shoulder as they reach the hovercraft. Seraphine is already there, waiting for Azzi, her usual cheerful demeanor muted with the solemnity of the day. The metallic hiss of the hovercraft’s door opening sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. This is it.

Without another word, Azzi steps inside. Seraphine follows, offering a small, reassuring smile as the door slides shut behind them. The hovercraft hums softly as it lifts off, heading toward the arena.

Inside, the sterile, clinical atmosphere makes her stomach churn. A Capitol medic approaches her almost immediately, a small syringe in hand. Azzi barely flinches as the needle pierces her skin, injecting the tracker into her forearm. She knows it’s necessary. They need to know where she is at all times. It’s standard procedure, but it still makes her feel like livestock.

Seraphine sits beside her, her usual flair for Capitol fashion stark against the dull surroundings of the hovercraft. She doesn’t say much, just watches as Azzi rubs her arm where the tracker was inserted. The silence is heavy, filled with unspoken words, and it’s not long before they arrive at the underground facility just outside the arena.

Once inside, they’re led into a small room where Azzi is handed her arena outfit—a black, water-resistant suit that fits snugly against her frame. It’s durable, sleek, and clearly meant for endurance. The material feels odd against her skin, foreign compared to the simple, looser clothes she’s worn most of her life.

She glances at herself in the mirror. The suit is practical, but its design tells her something about the arena. Water. The Capitol is hinting that water will play a significant role in the Games. Maybe a jungle, maybe a lake, or something more treacherous. Her mind races with possibilities, but she pushes the thoughts aside. She’ll find out soon enough.

As she pulls the last of the suit into place, Seraphine watches her carefully, her eyes glassy. The usually confident stylist seems suddenly small, fragile, as if she’s struggling to keep herself together. She steps forward, her hands gently smoothing the fabric of Azzi’s suit, her fingers trembling slightly.

“You’re going to be alright, Azzi,” Seraphine says softly, her voice cracking just a little. “You’ve been so strong. You’re going to make it back—for your family. I know you will.”

Azzi’s chest tightens at the words. Seraphine’s sincerity, her belief that Azzi can survive this—it’s almost too much to bear.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispers, her voice barely audible.

Seraphine pulls her into a tight hug, her arms wrapping around Azzi’s frame with surprising strength. It’s brief, but Azzi feels the weight of Seraphine’s worry in that embrace. It’s like she’s saying goodbye.

When they pull apart, Seraphine’s eyes are red-rimmed, though she’s trying her best to hold it together. “Good luck, Azzi,” she says, her voice shaky. “You’re going to be okay.”

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat and nods. She doesn’t trust herself to speak, so she just gives Seraphine a small, grateful smile.

The door to the launch chamber opens, and it’s time.

Azzi steps into the glass cylinder, her heart pounding in her chest. The last thing she sees before the platform begins to rise is Seraphine, standing in the doorway, her hands clasped tightly together as if in prayer.

And then the ground shifts beneath her feet, and she’s lifted upward, the glass tube carrying her toward the surface. Toward the arena.

The first thing she notices is the intense humidity. The air is thick, almost suffocating, and it clings to her skin. As her eyes adjust to the sudden brightness, she realizes why—it’s a jungle. Dense, tangled vines hang from towering trees, their massive roots weaving through the ground like some ancient network. The ground beneath her platform is slick with mud, and just beyond the edge of the platform is a large body of water—a vast lake, its surface calm and unnervingly still. It stretches out as far as she can see, bordered by the dense jungle on one side and the metallic glint of the Cornucopia in the center.

Water. She was right.

Azzi’s gaze darts to the other tributes. There’s movement all around her, platforms rising as the others are pulled into view. Some faces are familiar from the training center, others not so much. She spots the Careers first—the boy and girl from District Two, standing tall and confident, both of them dangerous and ready. Their eyes are already locked on the Cornucopia, clearly prepared to kill anyone who stands in their way.

A few spots down, she sees Kellan. His face is pale, his eyes wide with fear. He looks like he’s barely holding it together, his body stiff as if he might bolt the second the gong sounds. He’s trembling slightly, and Azzi’s heart tugs at the sight. He’s not going to last long, not with that kind of fear weighing him down. But she can’t afford to think about him—about anyone, really. Cyrus’s voice echoes in her mind: Don’t get too close to anyone.

She swallows hard, her gaze shifting back to the Cornucopia. The metallic structure gleams in the sunlight, stacked with supplies—everything they’ll need to survive. Weapons, food, water. But it’s a death trap. The Careers will get there first, and they’ll cut down anyone who tries to take something they’ve claimed.

Azzi’s eyes flick to the jungle behind her. It might be safer to head for cover, to avoid the bloodbath entirely. But then again, if she doesn’t grab something now, she could be left empty-handed, vulnerable. She forces herself to breathe deeply, trying to focus on her strategy. It has to be quick, precise. She’ll grab something—anything—and get out. That’s it. Nothing fancy.

The countdown begins, the metallic voice booming over the arena. Sixty seconds.

Azzi’s heart races as the clock ticks down. She glances around once more at the other tributes, trying to gauge their movements before it’s too late. Some are already tensing, their eyes glued to the Cornucopia. Others, like Kellan, are frozen in place, terrified to move. Far across from her, Azzi thinks she sees a flash of blonde hair. Paige. She wonders if she’s scared right now.

Thirty seconds.

Azzi’s hands ball into fists at her sides, every muscle in her body tightening. The humidity, the jungle, the water—it all presses in on her, but she pushes the fear down. She can’t afford to freeze up. She won’t.

Fifteen seconds.

Her pulse pounds in her ears, the world around her narrowing to just the Cornucopia and the water at her back. She feels the weight of everything—Cyrus’s words, Seraphine’s hope, the Capitol’s eyes—bearing down on her. It’s overwhelming, but she won’t let it break her.

Ten seconds.

The other tributes are crouching now, their bodies taut, ready to sprint the moment the gong sounds. Azzi glances at the Cornucopia again, her mind calculating every possible move, every route.

Five seconds.

Her heart hammers in her chest, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

Three.

She digs her heels into the platform.

Two.

Her hands tremble.

One.

The gong sounds.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games have begun.

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers fic #uconn wbb #uconn #wbb #wcbb #pazzi #pazzi fic #azzi fudd #uconn huskies #paige x azzi #hunger games #wnba #wlw #pazzi angst #hunger games au #safe and sound

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read-marx-and-lenin · 1 month ago

Note

It's a good pamphlet and clearly the DDR needed to defend itself. But it doesn't explain why they had to shoot civilians trying to leave the East

I'm not going to say I support the "shoot to kill" orders. I don't. I think they were the wrong move on the part of the GDR and led to unnecessary and tragic deaths. But I also think you have to look at it objectively and in the context of the wall itself.

In 1959, the GDR announced the discovery of classified NATO documents outlining a potential invasion of East Germany using West Berlin as a staging ground, dubbed "Operation DECO II". Neither NATO nor the FRG have ever confirmed or denied the authenticity of these documents, but they align with Western refusal to agree to any plans for reunification that did not involve a NATO-aligned Germany.

In 1960, the Sino-Soviet Split occurs, France becomes a nuclear power, and NATO deploys nuclear missiles in Italy. In June 1961, two months before construction of the Wall, NATO deploys nuclear missiles in Turkey. In October 1961, the USSR detonates the largest nuclear bomb ever created. In 1962, the Cuban Missile Crisis occurs. And in 1963, Kennedy makes his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech, proclaiming his opposition to communism and the defensive actions of the GDR.

From 1957 to 1961, the head of the West German military was Adolf Heusinger, a former high-ranking Wehrmacht general who helped to plan the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union. From 1961 to 1964, Heusinger was Chairman of the NATO Military Committee. After Konrad Adenauer had ended denazification in West Germany early, many such instances of former Nazis and Nazi collaborators coming to power and prominence within West Germany had occurred, which is part of the reason why the GDR dubbed the Wall the "Anti-Fascist Protection Wall".

This period marked the highest point in tensions between East and West during the Cold War. Around the world, revolutionary movements were growing, and the capitalists and imperialists were becoming more belligerent in turn. The GDR was dealing with saboteurs and spies and Western agents bribing skilled workers to encourage defection. It is no surprise then that according to a 2011 study into the 136 deaths attributed by the authors to the Wall (and not all of these deaths were of civilians), more than half occurred from 1961 to 1966. However, over 50,000 arrests were made due to border crossing attempts that did not result in death, and by the 1980s there were millions of legal crossings from East to West Berlin approved by the GDR, the vast majority of which later returned to the GDR.

Every death that happened due to the Wall is a death that should not have happened. But the Wall is not some totalitarian construct the evil communists created to trap people and prevent their escape. It was a means of defense against the aggression of the capitalist world towards a vulnerable socialist state forced to host a capitalist enclave. In a just world, West Berlin would never have existed in the first place. In a just world, NATO would have accepted the Soviet proposal for a neutral and unified Germany and Germany would not have been separated for decades. The Anti-Fascist Protection Wall served its purpose and prevented what could have been a major escalation in the Cold War.

When the Wall fell and capitalism was forced upon East Germany, immediately there were major increases in poverty, unemployment, and homelessness, something that occurred across Eastern Europe during the period of neoliberal "shock therapy" as labor protections and welfare systems were removed and state enterprises were privatized. To this day, East Germany remains poorer than West Germany despite over thirty years of glorious free market capitalism to mend the divide. I do not have any concrete numbers, but I would not be surprised if the total number of deaths relating to post-reunification poverty exceeded the number of deaths attributed to the Wall.

Recommended reading:

What You Should Know About the Wall (1962 GDR pamphlet regarding the Wall) Behind the Berlin Wall - Challenge Magazine A Marxist-Leninist Approach to the Berlin Wall - /r/communism The Triumph of Evil - Austin Murphy Stasi State or Workers’ Paradise - Bruni de la Motte & John Green

#communism #socialism #marxism #marxism leninism #gdr #east germany

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loveinhawkins · 9 months ago

Text

ao3

Eddie falls asleep in the back of the RV. Steve watches it happen in stages, after the stop at The War Zone—driving a little further out for a food shop, away from prying eyes.

He announces that the coast is clear when the roads become reassuringly empty. For the first time in days, he relaxes into the rhythm of driving: he’s triple-checked that no-one’s tailing them, and if it weren’t for the hastily bought weapons, he could almost pretend that…

He glances at the rearview mirror, sensing movement. It’s Eddie, standing up from where he’d been huddled against the back of Steve’s seat. He looks like he’s relishing the freedom to stretch his legs—Steve thinks, with a pang, that he’s probably sick of hiding—and takes his time on his way to the back seat.

Keeps his balance for the most part, only stumbles once, briefly latches onto Robin’s shoulder with a sheepish smile, says something like, “Role reversal, Buckley,” and she laughs.

He settles with the kids in the back. Clearly tries to give them the most space, folding his legs awkwardly in the corner almost like he’s already back to hiding again, but they won’t let him; Dustin wiggles along to create more room, and Erica pins Eddie with a look—the most Steve can make out is, “You look like a…”, but whatever she says makes Eddie snort, then smile with obvious affection.

The next time Steve looks to find Eddie’s reflection, he’s relaxed into his seat, legs stretched out in front, the edge of one sneaker bouncing up and down absent-mindedly—but growing slower and slower.

He’s talking to Lucas, the speech drowned out by the RV engine; Steve can still see how it makes Lucas relax in turn, even giggle, which has been an all too rare occurrence lately. How Max, despite carrying the heaviness of the Walkman, looks on with a spark in her eyes.

If Steve had to guess, he’d say that Eddie doesn’t mean to fall asleep. Maybe it’s the motion of the RV or the angle of the sun through the windows. Maybe it’s just that he finally feels safe.

Either way, his blinks get longer and longer, and then he’s drifted off, out completely, and Steve watches with something close to pride as the kids all get off the bench in silent agreement—Max confidently lifting Eddie’s legs and swinging them up onto the cushions like it’s second nature. He barely stirs, head nodding a little until he’s lying down properly.

Steve splits the last of his cash with Nancy on the food. They make a trio with Robin for heading to the store, the kids on what they’ve dubbed ‘Eddie watch’ and what Steve has dubbed, “Yeah, I’ve left it running—that still means no driving unless, like—actually no, I’m not even gonna—yeah, Dustin, I’ll get you more Pringles, Jesus Christ.”

And because he’s weak, he still ends up caving to Max’s loophole that yes, if demodogs and/or bats and/or people that just look at them funny show up, she’s got permission to floor it; he’s not gonna tell her he’d scoped the place out well before he’d parked.

Ten minutes later, laden with bags, Nancy says, “We could use somewhere with more space. For…”

She indicates the supplies of a more grim variety than snacks.

Steve thinks about it, then exhales with a little laugh. “Yeah, I’ve got somewhere.”

Robin eyes him curiously. It’s like she’s heard through the laugh, can somehow feel the thing that wells up in the back of his throat—only for a second; he’s used to pushing it back.

She squeezes his shoulder. He pats the back of her hand before driving away. Sometimes words spill out between them, ever flowing. Sometimes they don’t need words at all.

There’s a strange kind of thrill in feeling the tires go right over the grass. Feels bigger than what it is—like something’s finally been unearthed.

They’re all quiet as the group starts to filter outside. Steve looks over his shoulder: Eddie is still fast asleep. His lips move every so often, drowsy half-formed words.

Steve wonders what he’s dreaming about. He hopes it’s something good.

He lets everyone go in front of him—Robin snatches a bag of food out of Dustin’s hands, whispering fondly, “That one’s mine, you animal.”

Nancy hesitates just outside, then turns back into the RV to sit on the step.

“It’s just…” She tilts her head to the side with meaning. “I don’t think he should wake up alone, you know?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, me too.”

And that’s how they end up sat together, half in the RV and half outside. Nancy dangles her feet above the grass—she could reach it, of course, but it seems deliberate, like she’s enjoying the breeze.

Or trying to, at any rate: there’s still a restlessness to her, an anxious pinch to her face, like she’s one step away from jumping to her feet and—

Steve squeezes her knee—hears the way she exhales, like she’s finally caught her breath.

“Food first,” Steve says gently.

She nods belatedly, like the words take a little while longer to reach her. “Food first.” She rustles through one of the bags, brings out something wrapped in foil. “Robin said this is for you…?”

Steve chuckles. It’s a sesame bagel: bacon, egg, and cheese.

He gives half to Nancy.

They eat in companionable silence—just listening to the breeze and the occasional shout of laughter: Robin’s formed a circle with everyone up ahead, a chaotic game of duck, duck, goose, which is a ridiculous choice because her run is ridiculous, and Steve feels his cheeks ache with a smile at the grass stains already on her shirt, as Dustin and Lucas pull her down in some kind of duck-goose uprising, and Max gets Erica up on her shoulders, joining the fray; and underneath it all, he can hear Eddie hum slightly in his sleep, but it’s not a noise of distress—like he knows subconsciously that he isn’t alone.

“Here,” Nancy says.

When Steve turns to her, she’s got a packet of chips open between them. Salt and vinegar.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but—

“You remembered,” he says through a rush of affection; it hits him square in the chest.

Nancy smiles. “Can never forget you and Mike fighting for the last packet.”

Steve knocks their knees together. “Yeah, he fought dirty.”

They laugh together, hushed but heartfelt.

There’s a streak of ketchup across Nancy’s face that she hasn’t bothered wiping away. She looks years younger somehow—looks lighter, like the food in her stomach has settled something intangible.

Her smile turns even softer, thoughtful, and warmth settles behind Steve’s eyes.

I’m sorry, he thinks. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what…

You never deserved to hurt.

“Did you get changed in the dark?” Nancy says, eyes bright with mirth.

It’s so sudden that it startles Steve right out of his thoughts, a welling emotion halted.

“Excuse me, Nancy Wheeler?” he says with a faint grin.

“Steve Harrington,” Nancy returns teasingly. She ruffles a hand through the back of his hair with easy affection, “There. That’s more like it.”

“Am I presentable now?”

“Oh, you’ll do.”

She rests her chin in her hand, just considers him—but it’s a gentle kind of look. Almost like they’re back in English class, and he’s just answered a question without stumbling over his interpretation, and he glances across to her desk, finds her watching him with pride.

“You suited the denim,” she says sincerely. Mimes how he’d shrugged into Eddie’s vest.

Steve feels touched in a way that he can’t fully place, like she’s said something else. Maybe she has.

“Thanks,” he says.

They both look over to the field at a cry of victory. Dustin’s found the stash of 3 Musketeers, holding it aloft like he’s just won a science trophy.

“Hey,” Nancy calls, laughing, “at least one of those is mine!”

Steve can feel her shift, about to stand, and impulsively, he says, “Nance, wait.”

She’s stood already in the split second it took for him to speak, but she turns back.

Steve stands up. Hugs her.

He tries to put all he doesn’t know how to say into it; he does his best, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. Thinks of how he swept her into an embrace next to the school lockers, her surprised shout of laughter, if you can be this for her, she’ll be happy, you’ll be…

And maybe she’s heard some of it, because her hold tightens around him, like she’s saying, you never deserved any of it, either.

She pulls back. Claps his shoulders to make him sit back down, and they both giggle slightly, both vulnerable. Nancy’s eyes are shining at the corners. But Steve knows they’re the good kind of tears.

He feels them, too.

Nancy nods, smiling wide, blinking in quick succession before the moment’s gone.

He nods back.

And then she’s running over to Dustin, and it almost looks like she’s flying, like she’s sixteen years old again, and nothing ever…

Steve has to close his eyes for just a second. Breathes through it.

Minutes pass before he catches a change in Eddie’s breathing—hears him shift and sigh as he stretches.

Steve tilts backwards, just enough to see Eddie slowly drifting awake on the bench.

“Hey,” Steve says as soft as he can, so Eddie can go back to sleep if he wants; so it can just be part of a dream.

For a moment, it looks like that’s exactly what Eddie will do. But then his eyes find Steve’s, and they light up in recognition.

And he smiles. Sits up.

“Shit, did I really…?” The rest of the question’s lost to a yawn, and he stretches again, rubs a hand across his face to wake himself up.

“Yup,” Steve says. There’s one last bag by his feet, which he picks up to put in Eddie’s view. “This has got your name on it, man.”

Eddie sits down next to him. Steve shifts closer as he hands the bag over, feels the gentle press of Eddie against his side, the warmth left over from sleep.

Eddie whistles at the assortment of food. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Yeah, no—like, thank Dustin, not me.”

Dustin had rattled off a list of Eddie’s favourites—“Actual food this time, Dustin, he’s not surviving on just cereal, it’s depressing,”—which Steve had written hastily on the back of his hand.

He knows that Eddie’s seen the evidence of the list on his skin, faded as it is from the dying pen he’d used, because he smiles when he says, “Mm-hmm, I will,” like they’re sharing a secret; and then he looks off into the distance, squinting against the sun with a hand over his eyes, barks a laugh. “Besides, he looks kinda busy, uh… I don’t actually know what he’s doing. Killing Buckley, maybe?”

Robin’s joking yell punctuates Eddie’s words; it looks like she’s somehow recruited Lucas over to her side, because Dustin’s trying to flatten the pair of them; Erica’s got Dustin’s thinking cap on backwards, while Max shouts, “That’s a foul!”; Nancy’s sat crosslegged, eating candy and throwing out words of amused encouragement.

Eddie chuckles so fondly. He eats some of his share, then sighs with contentment. He stands but doesn’t go far at all, drifts over to a patch of ground like he’s drawn to it. Sits down. Runs his hands through the blades of grass and flowers, even the weeds; it makes Steve smile.

He follows.

They sit close to each other almost like they’re still sharing the step, even though there’s more than enough room to…

Eddie keeps watching the roughhousing. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He looks… happy.

He sighs again, leaning back a little, “This is nice. Who’s idea was it to come here?”

“Nancy’s, really,” Steve says.

But he can tell that Eddie notices the evasion—there’s a barely perceptible twitch of his eyebrow as he listens. He’s getting almost scarily good at it, Steve thinks, but it’s not done in an intimidating way; it’s not like Eddie wants to catch him out in something. It’s more like he… just wants to know. Like he cares.

“But you knew a spot?” Eddie prompts.

“Yeah, I…”

Steve could still avoid it—could just say carelessly, ‘cause we drove past it, duh, and Eddie would let it drop, he knows he would. But…

“I came here when I was a kid. Like, years ago. It was summer, and I think the car broke down or something? So we had to wait for…” Steve shrugs, but it’s just movement for the sake of it, trying to conceal the way his throat’s tightening in slow increments. “It was… I liked it,” he adds. Nods towards the kids. “I thought they might like it, too.” He tries to laugh, “Guess that’s kinda stupid to—”

“I think it’s sweet,” Eddie interrupts firmly. “This place, it’s…” He smiles at Max’s squeal, Lucas lifting her up in a bridal carry. “It’s perfect, Steve.”

Steve tries to smile, because it is perfect, but that suddenly makes it hurt all the more. He’s gripped by a fierce, desperate urge to seize the weapons and burn them, to just let everyone fucking rest, to tell them they don’t have to do it anymore, they never have to—

“Steve,” Eddie says, soft, dismayed—sitting up and touching Steve’s hand where it rests in the grass, so delicately, so kind—

Steve swallows; he must not have pushed it all back in time. He doesn’t want to know what his face looks like, but he can guess, can feel the telltale burn in his eyes—and wavers on the brink. Almost falls. But he catches himself, only just, and when he’s forced to quickly swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand, he reasons that it’s okay. Only Eddie can see.

Still, he should—

“Sorry,” he waves a hand, tries to laugh at himself again, “just ignore me.”

When Eddie smiles, it looks as if he’s only doing it because he’s taking his lead from Steve. His eyes speak for him—like he’s thinking, you’re breaking my heart.

“Ignore you? Shit, man, that’s hard. Have you seen you?”

It’s said with a ridiculous amount of theatrics—so obviously done to lift Steve’s mood. But there’s a note of sincerity that Steve can hear above everything; Eddie isn’t hiding it.

Perhaps he doesn’t need to, either.

“I’m more than just a pretty face, Munson.”

He expects Eddie to laugh. And though he does, it’s quieter than he’d expected, and he says, “Oh, I know. Trust me.” He’s looking at the kids as he speaks. “They’ll be okay, you know.” He doesn’t say it like a platitude. He says it like a promise. “Wheeler, Buckley… me. We have them, too.”

And Steve doesn’t know how Eddie could ever accuse himself of cowardice. God, if you could only hear yourself, he thinks.

“I don’t want—I know. I know you do. I just—just wish—”

His voice fails him.

Eddie tilts his hand, palm up. Steve could act like he’d never seen it all. It’d be easy.

He takes Eddie’s hand. Breathes, and tries again.

“I just wish we didn’t have to—”

It’s as far as he can manage.

Eddie squeezes his hand. Murmurs, very gently, like a memory, “And so do all who live to see such times.”

Steve doesn’t need to ask. He can feel the weight of it through the words alone. Focuses on Eddie’s touch, the way his fingertips brush against Steve’s knuckles, over and over.

And then Steve lets go, but not before squeezing Eddie’s hand in return. Twice. He doesn’t know Morse code, but he hopes he’s understood.

He watches the kids play again. Glances over to the side when he feels another touch, Eddie’s shoulder briefly skimming his. This time he can tell it’s accidental; Eddie’s swaying a little where he sits.

“Shit, sorry. It’s the sun, it’s,” he yawns, “it’s making me…”

Steve’s reminded of the boathouse; of Eddie’s sunken face at Skull Rock.

“You’re just exhausted, Eddie,” he says.

He stands, briefly places his hands on Eddie’s forearms, tries to shield him from the worst of the vertigo. He feels Eddie jump beneath his touch, a forcible jolt back from the edge of sleep. Visceral.

Steve’s chest hurts.

“Wait there,” he says. “I’ll be right back. Hey, try to not fall asleep just yet, ‘kay?”

“M’not,” Eddie says, not very convincingly.

When Steve returns with a pillow from the RV, Eddie is lying in the grass, flat on his back. One hand floats in front of his face, fingers curling like he’s playing guitar chords—like he’s doing it to keep himself awake.

“Dude, that can’t be comfortable,” Steve says. He bends down, taps Eddie on the forehead, which makes Eddie blink slowly, looking at him upside down. “Can I…?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Eddie says softly. It sounds like I trust you.

Gently, Steve cups the back of Eddie’s head, moves it up ever so slightly and puts the pillow in between him and the ground. Eddie settles onto it with a sigh.

Steve moves away, sits back down; Eddie turns to lie on his side, facing him. His cheek presses into the pillow, one leg bending a little, like this is how he lies in bed; there’s a fragile vulnerability to the sight.

The sun draws attention to the grass in his hair. The slightest trace of freckles underneath his eyes; they’ll come out more in summer, Steve finds himself thinking. He wants to be there to see it.

It was summer when he first thought a boy was pretty. That day the car broke down, but his dad was laughing, making the most of it; he’d walked and walked to buy ice-cream and returned victorious to the field, where Steve was waiting with his mom.

They weren’t the only families there—the spot had been much busier years ago: people using it as a pit stop on road trips, Hawkins locals mixed in with folks from out of town, so it felt like the whole world was to be found here, stretching out before them in the grass.

Steve had seen the boy playing tag—it was over in barely a flash, but he still remembers how he held his breath when their eyes met, without understanding why.

He’s pretty, he’d thought, it was the only word he had for it—an instinct from his mom teaching him words, bouncing him on her hip, oh, Steve, look at the pretty flowers.

He’d known even then it was a thought he couldn’t share—like how a child comes to know that they’re not to touch a hot stove.

He’s pretty.

Steve could tell himself that he doesn’t know why he’s remembering it now. But it would be a lie.

Eddie’s tugging idly at the grass, but his hand keeps going slack, twitching with oncoming sleep.

“You know how t’whistle with ‘em?” he asks clumsily.

His eyes are closed. Steve stills his hand, slips a blade of grass out from his loose hold.

“No,” he says, drags it through his teeth like he’ll miraculously make it whistle just by doing that.

Nothing happens, of course; the grass tastes just a little sweet on his tongue. He takes it out from in between his lips and lets it go, to be lost on the wind.

When the taste dissipates, he misses it.

“Yeah, me neither,” Eddie says, amused. His voice is lilting with exhaustion. “My uncle tried to teach me once, but I couldn’t… maybe ‘cause… still had some of my baby teeth… maybe that makes it harder?”

“Maybe,” Steve agrees quietly. He picks some grass out of Eddie’s hair, as lightly as he can. “I’ll ask him for some tips.”

Eddie smiles at that. “He’ll like you,” he says.

He’s half-asleep, Steve reminds himself. He hardly knows what he’s saying.

But he can’t help feeling pleased at the thought.

“Oh, yeah? You think so?”

“Mm-hmm. He likes…” Eddie yawns. “Likes everyone I like. And I… I really like you.”

It’s said so easily. Like it’s simple.

Maybe it could be. Just this once.

Steve feels emotion creeping up his throat, resting heavy on his tongue. This time, he doesn’t push it back; he speaks through it.

“I really like you, too,” he whispers.

Eddie hums sweetly, like he’s heard even when almost all the way to dreaming. “Think there’s a trick to it,” he mumbles, and Steve realises he’s talking about whistling again, lost to a childhood memory.

Stay there, Eddie. Rest.

“A trick?” Steve says in hushed tones.

“Yeah, I… remember he’d… he’d say…”

Eddie falls asleep mid-sentence.

Steve watches him. Angles his shoulder to create shade, shielding him from the sun.

He looks over at the kids: they’re playing tag with Robin now, Nancy joining in—a little quieter, like maybe they’d seen…

If he unfocuses his eyes just slightly, he can almost see his dad coming over the hill with the tubs of ice-cream. His mom smiling, sunburn on her shoulder, and Steve hit with a wave of inexplicable sadness, like he already knew, she’ll never be this happy again.

Eddie sighs in his sleep.

Steve feels a subtle change in the sun on his skin, the afternoon dying.

Stay, he thinks. Mouths it with childish hope, stay, like he’s still the boy who fell asleep right here, in between his parents, wanting the day to stretch on and on—the one who couldn’t outrun the feeling, even then, that he was coming to the end of something.

#do you ever think about just how much Steve loves them all #gay steve harrington #implicit but it’s there #steve harrington fic #pre steddie #steddie fic #steve and nancy #steve and the party #eddie and the party #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #steve x eddie #steve and his parents

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flwrstqr · 10 months ago

Text

enhypen moments with idol!yn

이희승 (lhs)

heeseung got on stage for their concert. among the sea of screaming fans, there was one person whose eyes never strayed from the stage – you, also an popular idol. during the concert, your eyes met heeseung's across the stage. a quick smile at eachother before he continued. during a quick intermission, heeseung made his way over to you back stage where you were sitting. he quickly intertwining his fingers with yours for a split second before continuing with the concert.

as the concert ended, he stepped offstage, pulling you into a tight hug backstage where no one was looking.

"I missed you," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"I missed you too," you replied, burying your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent.

"you were amazing out there," you murmured, pulling back to look into heeseung's eyes.

he grinned, his cheeks tinged with a rosy hue. "Not as amazing as you." with a laugh, you leaned in to capture his lips in a gentle kiss.

(rest of the members below..)

박종성 (pjy)

as the door to the dorm clicked shut behind you, jay let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he finally shed the weight of the day's responsibilities. you watched him with a soft smile.

"you look tired," you remarked, stepping closer to him and gently running your fingers through his hair.

jay leaned into your touch, closing his eyes "i am," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "but being with you makes it all worth it."

your heart swelled with affection at his words, and you pulled him into a tight hug. as you settled onto the couch, jay nestled against your side, his head resting on your shoulder as you ran your fingers through his hair in soothing circles.

"we don't get to do this often enough," jay murmured, his voice tinged with longing.

you nodded in agreement, "it's okay cause we got each-other here. i missed you so much," you admitted, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his head.

"I miss you too," jay whispered, his words barely audible over the quiet hum of the room.

심재윤 (sjy)

the crowd was screaming as you and Jake prepared for your special collaboration stage.

"are you nervous?" Jake asked, his voice filled with concern as he adjusted his microphone.

you replied "a little,"

jake smiled, "it'll be fine, plus who cares if people figure out?"

as the stage started, you and Jake exchanged playful smiles and knowing glances. after the performance, you and Jake grinned at each other. as you caught your breath backstage, jake pulled you into a tight hug, his arms wrapped protectively around you. "you were amazing out there," he whispered.

you smiled, feeling a warmth spread through your chest at his words. "you too, baby"

he chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "we make a pretty great team, don't we?"

박성훈(psh)

sunghoon, the mc of the award show, announce the winners. and then, as he read out your group's name as the winner, the world seemed to stand still.

as you made your way to the stage, you couldn't help but steal a glance at sunghoon. his eyes met yours, filled with adoration and happiness.

after the whirlwind of excitement onstage, you found yourself backstage. as you navigated through the crowded backstage area, a familiar voice called out your name, and you turned to see Sunghoon striding toward you, a proud smile gracing his lips.

"congratulations," he said, enveloping you in a warm hug. "I knew you could do it."

you melted into his embrace, feeling a surge of happiness wash over you. "Thank you," you whispered, resting your head against his shoulder. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Ssnghoon pulled back slightly, his hands cupping your face as he looked into your eyes. "I'm so proud of you," he said softly.

you leaned in to press a tender kiss to his lips, savoring the moment "thank you for everything. i love you so much," you whispered against his lips.

김선우 (ksn)

the city lights twinkled like stars as you and Sunoo strolled hand in hand through the bustling streets. it was a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos of your busy schedules, and you savored every second of it.

as you strolled hand in hand, laughter bubbling between you, you couldn't help but marvel at the simple joy of being together.

"you know," Sunoo said, breaking the comfortable silence, "this is nice. Just the two of us, enjoying each other's company."

you smiled, squeezing his hand gently. "It really is," you agreed. "sometimes, I forget how much I treasure moments like these."

sunoo grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "well, then, we'll just have to make sure we have more of them," he declared, his voice filled with determination.

you smiled, leaning into his side as you continued your stroll. "I'd like that," you said softly, feeling a rush of warmth.

양정원 (yjw)

as the interviewer adjusted the microphone and the cameras started rolling, you and jungwon sat side by side, sharing subtle glances and secret smiles, your fingers brushing against each other slightly.

the interviewer began with the usual questions, and you both responded smoothly, carefully avoiding any hints of your true relationship.

but as the interview dived deeper, the questions became more probing, touching on your chemistry on stage and the bond between you. you both exchanged quick, knowing looks, silently communicating through glances.

when the interviewer asked Jungwon about his thoughts on dating within the industry, he gave a simple answer, but his eyes flickered with warmth as they landed on you.

after the interview, jungwon turned to you, a playful glint in his eyes as he took your hand in his, "we did it," he whispered.

you couldn't help but smile, "We did," you replied softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips.

as your lips met, the world around you faded away. when you finally pulled away, Jungwon's eyes were filled with love as he brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. "I'm so lucky to have you," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

you smiled, feeling your heart swell with love. "I feel the same way," you whispered, reaching up to cup his cheek in your hand.

西村力 (nsr)

you sat cross-legged on the floor, your eyes fixed on Riki as he stood in the center of the room, a confident smile playing on his lips. He wore a simple black top and fitted jeans, his hair styled in his signature messy yet stylish manner.

"Are you ready?" Riki asked, his voice filled with excitement as he glanced at you, seeking your approval.

You nodded eagerly, as riki began his new choregraphy he made.

After his dance, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with admiration for him. With a shy smile, you approached him, your heart pounding in your chest. Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him in a gentle embrace.

you whispered "It was amazing, Riki. You put so much passion into it."

"thank you," he smiled back, staring into your eyes with warmth.

you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his cheek. "I'm lucky to have you," you whispered.

his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer. "The feeling's mutual," he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a sweet, lingering kiss.

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idrellegames · 2 months ago

Text

Hello all!

It is the start of a new year and I’m excited to announce Wayfarer’s new development plan. Unlike previous years, I will be doing quarterly roadmaps so I can be more transparent about how things are going and make adjustments should I fall behind.

The goal for Q1 (January to March) is to finish the Episode 3 finale. This finale is important—it is not just the end of an episode, but the end of Act 1 and represents a major story shift. Some things will come to a head, some things will be resolved, and you will be left with many, many more questions. The final includes two versions that are split between a story consequence from Episode 2—whether the Wayfarer remained hired by the Order of Lethalis or were fired from their mission. These two versions are then split in two branches, for a total of four branches that lead into 3 separate endings.

The Episode 3 finale has been in development since last summer, and I am hoping to pick up the pace with it and get it out of the drafting stage in the coming months. Should drafting go well, I will be able to code the new material starting in March. It is undecided as of now as to whether it will be added to the alpha build immediately after coding or not. Right now I don’t want to release the finale until everyone can play it regardless of their route (right now there are incomplete starting routes—if you are not on an Aeran or Veyer route, then you will not be able to play Episode 3), but this may change.

Wayfarer’s roadmap is an estimated timeline and is subject to change.

The State of the Episode 3 Alpha

right click for higher resolution

This is an overview of where the Episode 3 alpha is currently sitting. There is a lot of playable material with multiple intersecting sections dependent on previous choices, faction approval, and character approval.

As of January 2025, the Episode 3 alpha contains approximately 483,800 words of total playable content (the average play session is much shorter than that).

Other stats include (for Prologue to Episode 3):

Average Word Count Per Playthrough: 193,900 words (approximate)

Average Playtime: 11 hours

Total Cumulative Word Count: 1,414,800 words (approximate)

The build was last updated in July 2024. It is playable on my Patreon.

FAQs

—When will Episode 3 be finished?

There is no release date! The goal is for this year.

—When is the next public build update?

TBD. Episode 3 will not be released publicly until the Episode 4 alpha is finished. As I am still working on Episode 3, it will be a long wait. I will be doing some maintenance patches on the public build this year, but they will not be content updates.

—It’s been over 2 years since Episode 2, why is it taking so long?

I’m a solo developer, so when I get sick or need to take off due to personal reasons, that is development time lost. Unfortunately, 2023 and 2024 were both unexpectedly difficult years and despite my best attempts to stay on track, delays happened. Wayfarer’s scope is very ambitious and I know this; I am making cuts where I can, but there is a balance between scaling down and losing the vision entirely. Wayfarer is built on the idea that your choices matter, and to make those choices meaningful and impactful takes time.

—Is every episode going to take this long?

Nope! Episode 3 is unique in how all its threads come together. I certainly do not intend to take this long with following episodes.

—When will we meet the other companions (the characters on the cover art)?

Alexia, Ren, and Calla will be introduced in Episode 4 and 5. Nelani is introduced in Episode 6 and Felix in Episode 7, which marks the end of Game 1.

Thank you so much for your continued support! Let's get this done. ❤️

~ Anna Idrelle Games

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #announcements #dev log #interactive fiction #interactive novel #twine game #cyoa

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sparklyskies0 · 7 months ago

Text

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓

‘No, I wanna see you undress now

I wanna hear you confess now, ’

( 𝙞𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 ) y/n and chris have hated each other for as long as they can remember. Never minding the lingering tension that fills up the room whenever they’re together. When chris and y/n get into a heated argument about her new boyfriend that he quite obviously doesn’t seem to approve of, there’s nothing more left to say and everything becomes a blur.

warnings : poc!reader, angry drunk unprotected sex, fem receiving(oral sex!), dom!chris, glass breaking, scratching/blood, cursing, etc..

It was friday night, rainy and humid. Nothing but wet trees and fog filled the hot air. Y/n spent the night sneaking into clubs with her friends and drinking. Not all her friends, if you include chris sturniolo. Her worst enemy. For as long as she can remember, she’s always hated him, she doesn’t quite remember why or when it started. Possibly sometime during high school, she just recalls chris hating her so it’s only fair to hate him back, right?. Point is─ if it weren’t for them sharing the same friend group y/n would never be seen in the same room as chris sturniolo.

Y/n was drunk out of her mind, Every step she took almost resulted in her face first on the wet concrete floor. She can usually handle her liquor, but tonight was a complete different story. As fun as a night out with friends was for y/n, things got cut short when her new boyfriend troy decided to pick a fight. Causing a mild scene at the club getting her and all that came with, kicked out. In her defense, it was her first night out with him. Their relationship is fresh and the getting-to-know stage is still in effect, she had no idea he was a reckless drunk that hates when his partner is enjoying herself. And just as if her night couldn’t get any worse, her friends all piled up in two cars leaving y/n, alone with hers. Considering she was under the influence her friends leave her favorite person in the whole world to drive her home, chris.

The car ride was silent, the sound of the car air conditioner, filling it. Y/n sighed as she sat in the passenger seat of her own car , looking out of the window. The view was blurry as drops of rain and steam covered the glass. y/n glanced at the boy to her left, his one hand on the steering wheel while the other is rested beside him. Chris feels her eyes on him, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He comes to a stop at a red light, still feeling the girls eyes pierce into him. He double takes, “what?” his voice toned with clear annoyance. y/n shook her head, shrugging off her thoughts. “just can’t believe you’re driving my car.” the girl spoke with a sigh.

“yea, well you’re too wasted to drive”

“you’re boyfriend could’ve drove you if he wasn’t such a bitch and left”

y/n groans, here he goes

she rested her head on her hands, leaning closer to the window. she rolled her eyes in annoyance at the boy in the drivers seat.

“fuck off, we got kicked out” she defended

“because of him.” he protested. The light turned green, he glanced at the girl, the most irritated expression ever on his face and he resumed driving.

“all im saying is, you’re dating a piece of shit” he adds. This, is when y/n began to take offense.

“chris you don’t even know him.” she sits up

“neither do you!” chris announced

“isn’t this like you’re—what, second date?!”

y/n grew irritated, tired of the boy trying to tell her who she does and doesn’t know, no matter if he’s right.

“ he has to be the biggest asshole I have ever seen” he provokes. “clearly you haven’t seen yourself” y/n speaks, frustration in her voice

chris’s rolled his eyes, turning his gaze to her for a split second. “oh really?” he scoffs “god, you’re the worst asshole on the planet, chris!” y/n says, now enraged

“oh fuck you” chris curses

“no, chris—fuck you”

After those last words, nothing else was said. Y/n quietly took pride in having the last word, which she usually does. chris approaches her driveway and stops. y/n opens her car door immediately getting out. sighing of instant relief of being released from the tight space that she shared with chris sturniolo. the drive couldn’t have been longer.

due to lack of standing on her feet, y/n almost feels herself fall. stumbling but catching herself, she cursed. chris, exited the car shortly after. closing the door, he glanced up sighing to himself at the girl carefully walking to her front door.

he caught up to her, stepping to the side as she takes out her keys from her clutch, opening her door. Walking in she lets out a small sigh. Switching the light on revealing her living room. Chris closed the door behind him. “you didn’t have to walk me inside” y/n turned around, almost forgetting the boy was with her.

“do you not see yourself? you can barely walk” chris says smartly “god can you not be an asshole for one second” y/n spats

“i’m not a fucking kid, you don’t need to watch me or follow me around”

chris lets out a scoff, “no, but you’re someone who makes stupid fucking decisions like a kid” he responds “exhibit A” he points to the nightstand in her living room , a framed picture of y/n and troy on their first date, a gift he gave her.

“oh my fucking god chris! what is your problem” y/n exclaimed, “ever since i started seeing him you’ve been even more of a dick than you usually are and i’ve been trying to go with it but it’s just annoying now!”

“I just thought you were smarter, you know”

“if there was anyone I expected you to be with it would not be someone like him” he exclaimed back

“why the fuck do you care? why is that any of your business?!” she shouted out. The living room filled with silence . “who i date is absolutely none of your concern. so you can take your fuck ass opinion and shove it up you─” her words were cut off by chris slamming his lips into hers .

it happened too fast for her to process it. Chris pulled away, his face hot and almost, greedy. y/n looked into his eyes. She didn’t know what was happening, or why he just did that. She doesn’t know why she wants more. Grabbing the back of his head she pulls him back in. The kiss was hot, their mouths moving along each other, chris’s tongue demanding entry against her lips. y/n opened, letting him in. Muffled moans filled the room. Their tongues fighting for dominance.

chris removed his lips from hers allowing them both to catch a breath. He traced kisses along her jaw. They unknowingly ended up backed up against the wall in her living room, by her front door. Y/n lifted her head up, giving him full access to her neck. her eyes closed shut, biting her lip. she grabbed the sides of his face guiding him back up to her face, wanting more of his lips on hers. Chris bit her lip, his right arm stretched over her head, keeping himself supported as her back placed against the cold wall.

he pulled her leather jacket off throwing it to the ground, revealing her red lace top. His hands snaked down to her ass hoisting her up and on the nightstand beside them. After setting her down, his free hand grabbed something pushing it off leaving more room on the stand. As the object hit the ground, glass shattered. The two broke the kiss at the sound, looking down. “chris…” y/n says looking down at the picture frame with the glass the protected it, shattered. Chris looked back up, making eye contact with the girl. He shrugged and pressed his lips back on hers.

As he trailed kisses along her lips and neck. he grabbed the straps of her red top pulling them down slowly. From y/n’s pov, he looked majestic. As he stood in between her legs , lips between his teeth sexily undressing her upper half. Her breast were set free. The cool light in the room reflected beautifully on her now bare, caramel skin.

“fuck” he breathed, his face low

he did not hesitate to take all of her left boob in his mouth, his tounge swirled around her now hard nipples. The right not being left out for too long, and he sucked it hungrily, gripping the other.

y/n moaned out, the vibrations and pleasure as he stimulates her breasts with his mouth and hands taking over. she could cum just like this if he keeps it up.

“fuck, chris”

chris then trailed kisses all over her body. when he made his way down her stomach, her back arched.

chris stopped at the hem of her skirt. Who knew wearing a skirt despite the horrible weather will come in handy for y/n?

he looked up at her, his eyes filled with lust. y/n looked down at him. moaning at the sight.

his eyes are so pretty and blue, why hasn’t she noticed this before?

not letting another second pass, chris slipped her skirt off throwing it down. Her black lace underwear now in clear view. Y/n’s breath hitched. Feeling her juices soak the fabric guarding what chris wanted most. she wonders if he can tell how wet she is.

chris grazed his fingers along her wet pussy. her underwear practically drenched. “look how wet you are for me” he speaks, kind of like a whisper

he traces his fingers along her folds threw her panties. her eyes fighting roll to the back of her head at the sensation.

it was as if something took ahold of chris, because his once slow and sensual acts became merely greedy and harsh. He ripped the fabric off and dove his face into her cunt.

this took y/n by surprise as she shoots up and gasps. the feeling of his tongue on her pussy sending vibrations and shivers down her spine. her now rosy cheeks, flushed.

his hands grabbed the sides of her waist. The girl a moaning mess in front of him. “shit, chris—fuck” she moaned, her fingers ran throw his brunette silky hair

Chris flickered his tounge up and down her pussy, moaning against it. The girls moans got louder. He sucked and circled around her sensitive clit.

“fuck, you taste so good” he came up for air. the girl practically whimpered. how the fuck did she get here? home late on a friday night drunk as chris sturniolo eats her out..

Chris worked his tongue some more as y/n got closer and closer “chris im gonna—” the girl moaned out, her breathing got heavy as she felt the tight pit in her stomach grow. Those words were affirmations of encouragement for chris, making him go faster. The girls moaning stopped for a split second, her mouth gaping open into an ‘0’ shape as her climax took over

she groaned biting her lip, chris stood down there assisting her through her high. she pants massaging the top of his head as that’s all that she can see of him right now. he lifts his head up, feeling accomplished. his mouth area glossy with her juices. He stands up slamming his lips into hers. she tastes herself on his lips moaning into the kiss. chris hands placed on both sides of her face. as the kiss grew more, he hand made its way to the back of her head, running his hands through her curly black hair.

y/n looked at him. her doe eyes, needing him. her hands trailed his body. she reached the bottom of his t-shirt lifting it over him. she kissed his collar bones and neck. her free hands snaking into his pants, grabbing ahold of his bulge in his boxers. he winces and moans. “fuck me..” she whispers looking him in the eye. chris, tempted but shook his head “you’re drunk” he states.

“that didn’t stop you before” she moaned to him. their faces inches apart, every time they speak, their mouths brush one another. chris looked down at her lips. biting his “what?.. you scared?” she taunts , a hum leaving her lips as she bit them

chris took that as a challenge. even when intimate they can’t seem to not tease each other.

chris immediately unbuckled his belt bringing down his pants, leaving his underwear, y/n grabbed a handful of his cock once again stroking it through his underwear. Chris moaned, burying his head down into her neck, his warm breath on her shoulders. he placed light bites along them. y/n slipped off his boxers as his cock sprung out. She moaned at the sight, he’s bigger than she imagined─hold up . she imagined the size of chris sturniolo’s cock?

she continued to stroke his dick, using his precum and some spit as lube.

she bit her lip harshly as she aligned him up with her entrance. he slid into her, slowly at first, then he slid back out. And slammed back in.

He thrusted in and out of her roughly. Her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, her arms wrapped around his neck for support. Sounds of skin clapping together and moans filled the home. Chris growled, removing her hands from around him pinning them above her head. the look on his face seeming familiar. like hate

this man was hate fucking her. and she loved every minute of it

chris let go of one of her hands as he wraps his tightly around her neck. he pulls her closer to him, chests pressed against each other. His left arm still pinning her right arm over her, while his right hand grips her neck. she threw her right leg over his shoulder as her left remained wrapped around him, her left remaining arm keeping her supported. she moaned loudly “holy shit chris fuck fuck fuck!”

her eyes rolled back. chris never shifted his gaze even a little bit, taking in every facial expression she makes. not wanting to miss the proof of how he’s making her feel.

“you like that, huh?” chris moans out

“like when im fucking you”

they held eye contact the whole time, y/n practically feeling her climax approaching just by his words.

chris let’s go of her neck , grabbing her legs returning them back around his waist. Y/n’s arms reached for his back. pulling him closer. Chris moaned into her ear “fuck, you feel so good. so.fucking.tight” he groans. He doesn’t know if he can hold on any longer. He speeds up, the clapping sounds intensify.

drowning in pleasure, y/n digs her nails into chris’s back. Chris winces, but found pleasure in the pain. biting his lip. “fuck, chris! just like that don’t stop”

“don’t stop” she repeats. digging her nails deeper. covering his back with scratches

chris goes faster, he can feel her juices building up.

y/n can feel chris’s cock twitching inside of her signaling how close he is.

“look at me, look at me while you cum on my cock baby” chris presses his forehead against hers. his hair dripping with sweat. Y/n obeys, staring deep into his eyes. she no longer sees the guy that she hates, she sees someone who is making her feel like she’s never felt before.

the room got quiet, nothing but the sound of chris’s thrusts getting sloppier.

chris gasps , groaning loudly as his cock twitches. releasing his warm load inside of her. While at the same time, y/n’s eyebrows raised as her mouth gaped open, an inaudible moan leaving her mouth. her eyes rolled back. she gained her voice back in pants. “oh my god” she breaths out. out of breath. her legs tremble in sensitivity as chris thrusts slowly through her high. Chris brought his face to hers attaching their lips. This kiss was sloppy, tired and full of hatred?.

Y/n moaned into it. Chris pulled away, catching his breath. He slowly pulled out of her, his cum dripping down her thigh. They both look down, watching it.

Both a sweaty, sticky , hot mess.

They don’t know where they’ll go from this, they don’t even know if y/n will remember this the next day. But what is known, is that chris sturniolo is the last person on earth that she hates right now.

ᥫ᭡ Authors Note

I can’t tell if i like this or not lmfao

anyway, hope you guys enjoyed this as my first official post/imagine.

sorry if the arguing was bad, I just wanted to get to the damn smut already

be sure to request anything ! i love you💟

xoxo paris

#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo smut #sturniolo triplets #enemies to lovers #hate sex #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #ᥫ᭡ sparklyskies0 #ᥫ᭡ ❛ xoxo paris ❜⸊ ᥫ᭡

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kyokopi · 10 months ago

Note

Ok so idk if anyone requested this but what about piwon dating idol reader and like two groups having some activities together?? (I'm so uncreative 😔)

IM ALIVE I had a lot going on this week but I am working on asks sorry this is so late 😭

Keeho

Oh my god Keeho would be a little more outgoing than normal knowing that p1eces would just see it as him being excited to promote with your group. He’d forget the idol image for a split second if the host makes a comment/joke towards you basically telling them to back off then slide a little teasing comment towards them.

Theo

Theo would definitely be lowkey staring between you and the scoreboard when the winners for MCountdown get announced he knows how hard you and your members work and how long you stayed in the studio preparing for this comeback hoping for your first win (mostly because he promised facetime until you left the studio) When the MC announced your group had won all of piwon and him on their way off stage clapped and as you passed each other you landed a double high five causing immediate panic your members and the rest of piwon following suit and high fiving each other not to make it suspicious.

Jiung

You both would not even know the other would be in the same variety show and the moment he see you on set his normal competitiveness is getting upped to 100%

to the point where the hosts have to tell him to calm down. He ends up winning a prize and shares it with you as an ‘apology’ for trying so hard but to be fair your annoyed face is just so cute

Intak

You two are paired for a collab dance stage and while filming behind the scenes you two have to turn down the real chemistry you two. You end up taking more of a stern non bullshit persona during the filming leading up to the live performance causing worry amongst fans that the chemistry just isn’t there leaving both of your fans shocked by the actual performance and how sensual the choreography had become now with the lights outfits makeup and the sheer adrenaline that comes with performing with your secret boyfriend. Ending pose consisting of close eye contact with his hand on your back. You spent the entire time in the makeup chair praying that Intak’s muscle memory of groping your ass doesn’t kick in like it did so many times during practice lucky for everyone it didn’t

Soul

While promoting for your comebacks your group and piwon get a joint segment and you two happen to be standing in the back next to each other…Yeah Shota straight up would pretend you’re not there just not to cause ANY speculation between you two which makes you giggle to yourself knowing that just 1 night ago he had fallen asleep in your arms exhausted

Jongseob

Your group and piwon are sat together during an award show you’re known to be an outgoing and friendly idol so it’s up to no one’s surprise that you’re having conversation with him and the other idols around you at one point after coming back from the bathroom you almost trip and before you could fall Jongseob catches you with a quick and genuine question of if you’re okay and leads you back to you seat Luckily fans and media focused on how kind this gesture was and netizens shut down any shipping or rumors into the relationship.

#kyokopi yaps #piwon x reader #p1harmony x reader #p1h x reader #p1h fluff #piwon fluff #soul x reader #theo x reader #jiung x reader #keeho x reader #jongseob fluff #jongseob x reader #intak x reader #soul fluff #theo fluff #jiung smut #keeho fluff #intak fluff

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destourtereaux · 2 years ago

Text

just a little bit of hope - peeta mellark x fem!reader

⤷ summary: with katniss and gale both gone, peeta steps in as an unlikely hunting partner for y/n. ⤷ wc: 2.6k ⤷ requested? yes. see request here. ⤷ follow @lovebirdupdates and turn on notifs to be on my 'taglist'!

⤷ a/n: two things - one, peeta has dimples here, it's just how i imagine him, so please bear with me; two, pretend gale's father is alive please, i didn't think our girl would be able to support two families, no matter how strong she is.

___

The day is horridly warm, exacerbated by a heavy humidity. As you wake, hot air suffocates your surroundings, and the sun glares through the window, hung on a span of blue sky. Pushing yourself up on your elbows, your bare feet find the ground, then immediately retract. The floor is burning hot, baked by the sun. You grit your teeth and force your feet back onto the wood, ignoring the searing heat. You have things to do.

You make a bowl of porridge, watery, but edible. You drink half, and leave the rest for your mother. Your father is off to the mines already, his boots absent. You get dressed, pulling on the prettiest dress you own. You're ready. Or, as ready as one can be.

Today, there will be no hunting with Katniss and Gale, no trading at the Hob. Today, there is only the reaping.

___

You spot Katniss at the edge of the square, gripping her sister's hand. Your friend looks nothing like she normally does. Gone are the boots and hunting jacket, replaced by a simple blouse tucked into a modest skirt. You nod grimly at her; neither of you feels like smiling.

Gale is over on the other side of the square, across from the stage they've set up. Your eyes meet, and he mouths "good luck".

After a few minutes of the routine announcements, Haymitch is introduced, then Effie. By now, the crowd has settled into an air of grimness, despite the clear blue sky overhead.

You don't hear Effie's jokes, and nobody laughs. She finally stops smiling, looking extremely awkward – you almost feel bad for her. Almost.

Then, she sticks her hand in the ball of names, each carrying a life, and pulls one out. Her smile is back on her face when she announces, "Without further ado, our female tribute is: Katniss Everdeen!"

You freeze, repeating her words in your head as if hoping they'd sound different. Your oldest friend – determined, brave Katniss, given a death sentence.

But Effie doesn't wait. Her next words are just as devastating. "And for our male tribute: Gale Hawthorne! Come on up now, dear, don't be shy."

Peacekeepers erupt through the crowd, grabbing your two best friends in the entire world by the shoulders, and forcing them up to the stage. Katniss whips her head around, looking at you with pleading eyes. You know what she's asking for.

"I'll take care of her, Katniss. I won't let her die. And you can't let yourself die, okay? Promise me. Katniss! Promise me!"

Your last words are hysterical, but ironically, Katniss is not. Having heard your commitment to Prim, she is satisfied. She yanks her arms free of the Peacekeepers and walks by herself, her head held high and her face serene.

You grab Prim's hand. Her whole body is shaking, wracked with sobs. You don't hear Effie's last words, but you know what they are.

"May the odds be ever in your favor."

___

It's been two weeks since the reaping which stole your best friends. It's shocking how quickly you fell back into routine, as if nothing has even changed. The only indicator of their absence is an added part of your day: splitting your earnings between your family and Prim's.

There are now double the mouths to feed, so you spend double the hours in the forest hunting. Villagers are sympathetic – that may be the only reason you're all still alive. They love Prim, and they trust you. Everything you hunt manages to be traded.

But still, you're cracking. It's just too much, and you don't know if it'll ever get better. You have no idea what Katniss and Gale are going through right now, and you don't let yourself think of them. It would break your heart.

___

Peeta Mellark has always been observant. His teachers told his parents this, back when he was a child. It's this trait that makes him notice you. The girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders, killing herself day after day to provide for not one, but two whole families.

He doesn't understand how no one else sees it. But maybe they do – it's just that no one in District 12 is really in a position to do anything about it. Still, the fact remains that you're close to breaking. You can't keep doing this alone.

Peeta Mellark has never been brave. His mother yells at him, beats him, and he takes it. He has never talked back to teachers, or dared disobey the Peacekeepers. So when he offers to hunt with you, he surprises even himself.

"What?"

"I'm Peeta Mellark. We were in the same class, and my parents run the bakery. I was wondering if I'd be able to hunt with you?"

So you weren't hallucinating. The baker's son – a boy you didn't think could kill a fly – had just asked to hunt with you. Your shock translates into a small laugh, not that anything about the situation is funny, really. Hurt flashes in Peeta's eyes, and you quickly backtrack.

"I'm sorry, that was rude. I'm Y/N L/N, I know who you are. I just didn't think you'd be the hunting type," you explain. Because you're gentle, and kind, and I've never seen you hurt anyone, with your words or physically. But you don't add that last part.

"I've only ever hunted with Katniss and Gale, you must know them, they were reaped this year." Your voice cracks a bit with those last words, and Peeta acknowledges the fact with a nod. His hand twitches; he wants to pat you on the back, or grip your shoulder, anything to stop the melancholy leaking into your eyes, but he doesn't.

"But you're welcome to join me," you end with a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes.

___

The new partnership starts early the following day. You meet a groggy Peeta near his home, and the two of you begin the walk to the Meadow.

You hear no electrical hum from the fencing, which means it's safe to touch, and you guide Peeta across the boundary which separates the Seam from the forest. This is all illegal, you know, but you're too used to it to even notice. Peeta, on the other hand, feels an exhilarating sense of rebellion as he crosses the barbed wire, following your figure into the woods.

"You've never hunted before, have you?" you probe, although it's more of a confirmation than an actual question.

Peeta nods. "But I'm a quick learner. And I won't get in your way, I promise."

You smile, a genuine one this time. "We'll see about that, Mellark."

Over the next hour, you go over all the traps you had set from the day before, collecting from Katniss and Gale's traps as well. True to his word, Peeta picks it up quickly, and even has a great eye for camouflaging the traps. This becomes his task, using grass and twigs and flowers as his medium, painting a deceptive scene which looks safe and welcoming to the many squirrels and rabbits in these parts.

You also start him on foraging. Only one type of berry is poisonous in the Meadow, and it's easy to identify. You make sure he's clear on which to avoid, and leave him to it, while you head to the hollowed out tree where you've hidden your knives. The familiar sight of Katniss' bow and arrows within the trunk brings a pang in your heart. You leave them nestled within and retrieve only your daggers. You were never a good archer.

Another hour passes, and you return to Peeta with a deer. You're happier than you have been in weeks – this will be enough for almost a week's worth of food. Peeta is not empty-handed either, he has two buckets of progress, one filled with strawberries, the other with raspberries. He gives you a soft smile – he has dimples, you think. He then immediately turns a faint shade of green, having noticed the dead deer.

You're seized with the desire to laugh, "Why'd you offer to hunt with me if you get queasy from the sight of game?"

He looks at you with an indignant pout, and you can't stop the giggle that tumbles out, then the full on laughter.

"I'm not like this with all game, just, you know, the larger animals. I can look at dead squirrels just fine – stop laughing!"

Making your way back, within the District, you stop just outside of the fence to split your gatherings.

"Take the squirrels and rabbits, and the bucket of raspberries. I'll keep the deer and trade the strawberries with the mayor," you offer.

"No, you take it all," he crosses the barrier carrying the buckets, and you follow after him, shaking your head.

"I can't, Peeta. That wouldn't be right. This is a fair split."

"I never said I wanted to keep what we hunt. Only that I wanted to hunt with you, Y/N. Take it. I know you need it more than I do. I'll see you next weekend?"

And with that, he pops a strawberry in his mouth, smiling at the sweetness, and walks away.

You're left with your mouth open, unable to process what had just happened.

___

The next morning, you show up at the bakery. His bakery. You earned a few dollars from selling your strawberries to the mayor, and you figure that if Peeta won't take anything, you should buy from him instead.

A few dollars is enough for two loaves of good bread, and so you head to the bread aisle. But your gaze catches on the beautiful cakes on display, decorated with multi-colored icing and swirling script written in melted chocolate.

"I did those," comes a voice from behind you.

Whipping your head around, you see Peeta himself, looking at the cakes with fondness and a bit of pride.

"You did what?"

"The cakes. I decorated them. My mom bakes, but I decorate. I like doing it – it's like painting, just on a different canvas."

"They're really lovely. You have a talent for it," you confirm, "I bet that's why you were so good at hiding traps yesterday. You can see nature's patterns."

He gives you a soft smile in return, and you can see the dimples again. They're adorable, you think. I want to see them every day.

He gives a small cough, looking at you questioningly.

You startle, and blush a deep crimson. "Sorry, I lost my train of thought. I'm here to buy bread. Two loaves," you say as you lower your head to stare down at the ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

It's only when you hear a chuckle that you lift your head back up. Peeta's eyes are sparkling, and his dimples are clear as ever.

"I'll give you three."

___

Two months after the reaping, your partnership with Peeta is still going strong. Every Saturday, the two of you head to the woods, and spend half the day fishing, gathering, and hunting. Originally silent company has evolved into true friendship, with witty banter, fleeting touches, and shared smiles.

You have come to know Peeta Mellark. He isn't just the baker's son, the one who decorates cakes and hates seeing dead animals. He's the boy who saved you, when no one even knew that you needed saving.

Day after day, he has shown up, offering kindness, companionship, and warmth, without expecting anything in return. You care about him more than you thought you could ever care about someone who wasn't family. You care about his messy blond hair, and you care about his broad shoulders. You care about his blue eyes which sparkle when he tells a joke, and his beautiful heart which leads him to give the occasional customer an extra free loaf. Most of all, you care about his dimples, which come out when he smiles at you. You care so much about him, that it scares you.

And Peeta cares about you. He cares about your hands, calloused but nimble, lethal when holding onto your twin daggers. He cares about your face, how it glows when you laugh at his jokes in the woods, but dims a bit when you're back in the district. He cares about your hair, always tied in a ponytail when in the Meadow, but left to flow freely down your shoulders when hunting's over. Most of all, he cares about your smile, which comes out when Prim thanks you week after week for your help, and forces you to take bottles of goat milk and pet Buttercup. He cares so much about you, that it scares him.

___

This hunting day, Peeta comes with news from the Capitol. A few weeks back, he started giving you updates on the Games, after you told him that you couldn't stomach the thought of watching your friends fight to the death.

"Y/N! Good news!" he greets, exiting the bakery. As the two of you begin your walk, he adds, "I'll tell you when we get to the Meadow."

"You're insufferable, Mellark. You can't just hook me like that, and not tell me what it is."

Peeta doesn't answer, so you start walking twice as fast, ushering him toward the edge of the Seam so you could figure out what exactly he wanted to tell you.

Once in the grassy plains of the Meadow, between the forest and the fence, you turn back to the boy, the impatience evident in your face.

"Tell me, Peeta, or I swear I'll –"

"Alright, alright," he laughs, "but it's not really good news, per se. It's just a little bit of hope."

You nod, urging him to continue.

"It's about the Games. About Katniss and Gale."

The last traces of your smile fade. Concern is etched onto your face, and your eyebrows scrunch up, your jaw tightens.

Noticing this, Peeta pulls you in by the waist, so that your head lands on his shoulder. "It's good news, Y/N. Don't look so defeated. They're both still alive, and they're fighting."

"But at least one of them won't be coming back," you whisper into his neck, so quietly you wonder if he even heard. But Peeta always hears you.

"Y/N. That's the news. They could both come back. Caesar Flickerman has just announced that they will be changing the rules this year – allowing two victors of the Games, provided they're tributes from the same district!"

You look up at him in awe. A change to the Games. Katniss and Gale, not one or the other. Both could win. Both could come back.

You choke down a sob, staring at Peeta's brilliant smile and those mesmerizing dimples. And before you can process what you're doing, you wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his in a bout of bravery.

Peeta's frozen for a second, before he begins to reciprocate the kiss in earnest. He pulls you in, one hand holding your neck and the other wrapped around your torso, pressing himself impossibly closer. He tastes like icing and strawberries, and you can smell the comforting scent of warm bread.

The kiss ends far too quickly for your liking, and you're suddenly impossibly shy, all bravado gone. You lower your eyes so you won't have to meet his eyes, but realize that you're practically sitting on his lap, having moved there at some point during the kiss. This observation brings a flaming blush onto your cheeks, and you scramble to move away, but you're held in place by Peeta's arms, forming an iron-tight cage around your figure.

He brings a hand to your chin, lifting it up, and kisses you again, more gently this time.

"Don't go all shy on me now, Y/L/N," he teases, and holds the back of his hand against your forehead, as if feeling for a fever. "You're burning up, darling."

"You know damn well that's not a fever–", you start, but you're cut off by his laughter, and once again distracted by those dimples of his.

Maybe Peeta was right. Maybe there is just a little bit of hope left for you.

___

interested in other works of mine? see my masterlist!

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writtenbyan-aries · 1 year ago

Text

Summary: Anon request on tumblr - "can you do a jake x poll dancer smut?"

Warnings: SMUT18+, strong language, pole dancer!y/n, cocky!y/n, mentions of working in a strip club, breaking club rules, semi public, sneaky, unprotected sex, hair pulling, biting, scratching, general filth

Word count: 2.9k | not edited really

Also, I fucking LOVE writing these ones because it makes me feel like I could totally be a stripper, so thank you to whoever sent this is to me.

╔═══━━━─── • ───━━━═══╗

"Ladies and gentlemen.." The DJ announces to grab everyone's attention, "Welcome to The Cave, where our number one priority is to make sure you have a good time, if not, then the best time!

A small smirk toys with your lips as you know your stage name is about to be announced.

"Please, without further ado, give it up for Sinderella."

Your song that you chose for openings tonight’s show, Bad Girlfriend by Theory of a Deadman, starts blasting through the speaking, mixing in with the cheers and whistles of the desperate men ready to try and get your attention.

You emerge from behind the curtain, a huge smile on your face as you walk over to the pole. You wrap one hand around it, walking around it as the song builds up.

Your eyes scan over the crowd surrounding the stage, one guy in particular catches your attention.

You give him a smirk as your eyes meet his and you lift yourself up, wrapping one leg around the pole as you lean back.

You slide down, squatting down as you move around to the beat of the song. You turn around, crawling over to the edge of the stage, stopping right in front of the guy that caught your attention.

Your eyes scan up his tattooed skin as you reach out, tangling your fingers into his hair and pulling slightly as the lyrics, “..she likes to pull my hair when I make her grind her teeth..” play loudly through the club.

He smirks and looks up at you, watching as you spin around and tilt your head back, looking at him upside down.

You bite your lip, spinning away from him, ass towards him as you crawl back to the pole. You stand up, lifting yourself up to spin around, doing a split in the air.

You smile as money gets tossed your way from everyone around the stage.

You move back down, crawling over to a random guy off to the side during the one bridge of the song. You get on your knees, hooking the straps of your red thong and pulling them outward as the song plays, “Red thong, party's on, love this song, sing along..”

You bite your lip as you spread your legs, bouncing up and down slightly as you give a little way to the guy during, “.. see you later back at home..”

You get up, walking back to the pole and dancing against it. Your eyes travel back to the guy with the dark hair and tattoos and you walk towards him, turning at the last second to go to the other side of the stage.

You glance back at him, smirking as you see him shake his head as he mouths, “Tease.”

You look away, tilting your head as you lock eyes with another guy, dragging your hands up your body, “..she's naughty to the end..”

You grip the edge of the stage, leaning forward so a guy can stuff a few ones in the strap of your very sheer bra.

“Thank you.” You smile and move down the stage on your hands and knees, flipping your hair, moving to shake your ass to the beat of the song.

You were having complete fun with it, until you went back to the guy.

You were assuming his friend was right next to him, so you lean out, grabbing the loose tie that was around his neck and pulling him into you as you lean back.

You push your chest out, flipping your hair as you let go of the tie. You move back, mouthing along to the lyrics as you slowly crawl towards the guy, “.. But does it make her wrong to have the time of her life?..”

You sit up straight, staring down at his hand reaching up to slip a twenty into the tiny strap of your thong.

Your eyes move up to his, “Thank you, baby.”

He nods, “Anything for my favorite dancer.” He winks, sending a kaleidoscope of butterflies through you.

You smile and move back to the pole to finish out the song. You spin, twirl, twist, and bend around it. As the song ends, the DJ comes back onto the mic, “Thank you, darlin’. Everyone give it up for Sinderella.”

You smile, bowing before going around to collect your money. You reach out, taking the loose ones from the hands of the men, giving them a cute smile as you thank them.

You walk back through the curtain, “Good luck, Sugar.” You smile at the next girl getting ready to go out and she scoffs, “Please. After that? I’ll need it. You were incredible, as always.”

You smile, “Thank you.” You hear the DJ announce her and you squeeze her shoulder, “You’re going to kill it.”

She disappears out onto the stage and you walk back to the dressing room to change into something different. You opt for a very skimpy all black one piece that just barely covers your nipples.

You switch your heels to Lacey black ones and fluff your hair one last time before making your way out to the floor.

Your head immediately turns towards the stage, but not to look at Sugar spinning around the pole.

You were looking for him.

“Sinderelly. Sinderelly.” One of your regulars comes up to you, taking your hand to spin you around so he can get a full view of you, “Got time for a private dance?”

He holds up three hundred dollar bills and you sigh, giving him a smile, “Of course I can.” You lead him back to the private rooms, pulling the curtain closed.

“Two songs like usual?” You turn around, walking around to lay your hand on his chest. He chuckles, “I wish, sweetheart. But I have an early flight tomorrow, so we’ll just make it one for tonight.”

“Where are you flying to?” You walk around to the front, slowly bending down as you sit on his lap.

“Barbados. Business, you know?” His eyes rake up and down your body, “Is this new?” He asks referring to your little outfit.

“Sure is.” You lean your back against his chest and move your hips against him.

You couldn’t help but think of how soft that guys hair was when you laced your fingers in it.

How his eyes followed you as you moved around on the stage.

The way he made your skin tingle when he brushed his fingers against your skin to tuck the money into the band of your panties.

You wanted him, needed him.

And you decided right then and there that you were going to be the ones to break the rules.

As the song ends, you stand up, turning around to face the gentleman in the chair, “I hope your trip goes well.”

He hands you the three hundred dollars and smiles, “I’ll definitely have to come back and tell you how it was.”

You nod, pointing to him after taking the money, “I’ll be holding you to it, honey.” You open the curtain, allowing him to walk out first, “Have a good night.”

He looks back at you as he walks towards the exit, “I will now.” He winks and you smile as he leaves.

You walk around the club, saying hi to other people you see in there all the time. As your leaned forward on the one table, your eyes lock onto the friend of the guy you can’t stop thinking about.

He smirks and nudges him, nodding towards you. He turns around, looking directly at you with a smile on his lips. You see him tell his friend that he’ll be right back, but you were going to make sure it wouldn’t be for a while.

“See you guys later.” You smile at the guys and walk around the table. You put one hand on your hip, smiling as he walks up to you, “Hey.”

“Hey.” He smirks and tilts his head, “So I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Likewise.” You pull your bottom lip between your teeth as you nod. You can tell his wheels were turning about whether or not you were just saying that because it was your job, or if you actually meant it.

You lean in, “Interested in a private dance?”

“Oh boy, you bet I am.” He nods with a slight laugh and you smile as you take his hand into yours, “Follow me.”

You glance back at him as he gives his friend a thumbs up. You shake your head laughing as you lead him to the room all the way in the back, “So what’s your name, baby?”

He walks in, sitting down in the large velvety chair, “Jake.”

“Jake.” You repeat as you shut the curtain behind you, “It’s very nice to meet you.” You walk over, dragging your hand over his chest as you walk in a circle around him.

“What did you think of my turn on the stage, Jake?” You sit in his lap, facing him with your hands on his shoulders.

He rests his arms out on the arms of the chair, “You want my honest answer?”

You nod as you move your hips to the beat or the song, “Please.” You lean in, brushing your lips against his neck and you can feel him swallow hard, “I um..” he clears his throat, shifting around under you, “It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He tilts his head back, looking up at you as you lean up, “Yeah? Well thank you, I really put my all into those kind of shows.”

He smirks, “You definitely had my attention.”

“Oh I know I did.” You laugh slightly and sigh as you stand up, turning around to sit in his lap, “So tell me, Jake.” You lean back against his chest, “You have a girlfriend that doesn’t know you’re here? Or does? I don’t know if you’re into that kind of thing.”

He chuckles, rubbing his fingers together, “No, no. I am as single as a dollar bill, Sinderella.” He tilts his head, “How’d you come up with that name anyway?”

You stand up, turning around to face him. You lay your hands his knees and bend down, “I spell it Sin as in..” you look up at him, “S. I. N.”

His brow twitches, “Yeah?”

You nod, “And.. because I like to live like there’s no midnight..” You move back to straddling him, your boobs right in front of his face and his eyes are locked on them.

“That’s..” he takes a breath, “Creative.”

You’re not only teasing him at this point, you’re teasing yourself.

“You can touch me.” You whisper, “It’s okay.”

He’s hesitant at first, “I really don’t want to get out time cut short by getting thrown out of here.” He chuckles and you slide your hands up his mesh covered chest, “As long as we’re quiet.. there’s no need to be thrown out.”

He tilts his head, “You do this with all your guests that come back her with you?”

You shake your head as you slide your hands down his arms, “Nope. I’m a good girl. I always follow the rules. But..” you guide his hands to your hips and you lean in, “You’re the first person I want to break the rules for.”

“Fucking hell.” He groans lowly as you grind down onto his growing bulge. You drag your nails up his arm and lay a hand on the side of his neck, “What do you say Jake? Still can’t get me off your mind?”

He smirks, a chuckle following behind, “If we’re doing this, I should get to know your real name.”

“Do you want to do this?” You ask and he instantly nods his head, “Fuck, yeah.”

“Y/n.” You say with no hesitation, “Nice to meet you.” You smile and lean in to close the space between your lips and his.

His hands slide down, gripping your ass, moving you to give him some sort of friction. A low groan leaves his lips as you bite down on his bottom lip and tilt your head back.

He kisses back your jaw and down to your neck, “You are so fucking sexy.”

You smile as you close your eyes, biting your lip to hold back your moans as he sucks on your neck, “No marks, Jake.” You lean back and he smirks, “Right. Sorry. Forgot that we’re a secret.”

You slide your hands down his chest, undoing the belt on his jeans so you can undo them and push his zipper down.

You lift up slightly so you can reach in, pulling him from his boxers, “You’re so big.” You bite your lip as you stroke him a few times.

He smirks and licks his lips, “Thanks. I’m pretty confident in it.” He chuckles but stops as soon as you rub the tip against your already slick folds.

You spit onto the tip of your fingers, reaching down to coat the tip of his cock with it, “You should be.” You smile and bite down on your lip hard as you slowly start to sink down onto him.

His fingers dig into your skin, tilting his head back as you grip the chair behind him, “Fuck, Jake.” You lean in, whimpering as you roll your hips, “needed you so bad.”

He turns his head, kissing the corner of your mouth, “So fucking wet.”

You turn your head, crashing your lips onto his as you slide a hand to lay on the back of his head, fingers lacing into his soft, dark hair.

You clench around him, already wanting to cum for him.

His hands guide you up and down on his cock, groaning lowly and fighting to stay as quiet as he can.

“My shift ends in two hours.” You breathe out, “Give me a ride home?”

Jake nods quickly, “As long as you promise to ride me just like this when we get there.”

“Deal.” You moan out quietly, “Fuck.” You bury your face into his neck, whimpering as you clench around him, “Cum for me, y/n.”

Jake using your real name sends you over the edge. Your nails dig into the couch as your other hand pulls his hair.

You clench your jaw and you rock against his cock, guiding yourself through the high or your orgasm. You kiss up his neck to his lips.

Your lips move in sync as he slowly and subtle as possible, thrusts his hips upward, “Never made a girl cum that fast before.”

You giggle slightly, “Now ya have.”

He tilts his head back before sliding a hand up to move the tiny straps covering your nipples. He looks down, eyes scanning over your boobs before staring down at his cock going in and out of you in the red light of the room.

“Fuck, I’m so fucking close.” He looks up at you, “Where do you want me?”

“I’ll swallow.” You whisper, “Just tell me when.”

He nods, pulling you back into kiss him. He thrusts a few more times before he nods, “Okay. Okay now.” You quickly get up, dropping to your knees in between his and placing your lips around his cock.

He lays a hand on the back of your head as you bob, working him up to cum. You feel if shoot into your throat and you wait til he done to lean back.

You look up at him, licking your lips as you wipe the corner of your mouth with your wrist.

“You’re such a bad girl.” He boops your nose and you shrug, “Only for the right kind of person.” You slide your hands up his thighs before standing up.

He fixes himself and rests his head back, staring up at you as you fix your outfit, “You say two hours?”

You nod, “Yep. Midnight.”

“I guess I can force Johnnie to stay here another two hours.” He laughs and you tilt your head, “That your friend?”

He nods, “Yeah, he didn’t want to come, but I told him it would be worth it. I guess I was right on that part for me anyway.”

“I’ll tell one of the girls to treat him good.” You smirk and Jake nods, “He will hate that.”

“Oh, do you no-“

He cuts you off, “No, no. Do it.” He laughs and moves to the edge of the chair, reaching out to pull you to him. His hands slide up and down your thighs as yours rest on his shoulders.

“I’m going to enjoy these next two hours.”

You look down at him, “Why’s that?”

“After what I just got.. it’s a big fuck you to all the assholes who know they can’t to touch you.” He smiles and stands up, giving you one last kiss before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a hundred dollar bill, “To cover our tracks, you know.”

“Of course. Of course.” You smile as he slips it into the thin strap. You look up at him and step back, “See you out there.”

“See you out there.” He winks before leaving the room and you stand there, silently composing yourself before you walk back out to the floor.

.·:*¨ ✘ ¨*:·.

Thank you so much for reading!

Love you all! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

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latenightdaydreams · 8 months ago

Note

I'm so desperate for Boxer Konig and reader. I imagine it would be like König fights every night for living in the ring and reader is bartender in that place, like it has a bar counter for drinks. Reader is his favorite bartender. ❤️❤️

Imagine being able to go to work and see him sweaty and shirtless everyday🤭💖

Boxer!König x Bartender (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, p in v, oral, public sex

2.2k

🥊

König watches you set up the bar out of the corner of his eye as he talks to his trainer, Horangi, before the fight. His eyes drift over how your black shirt hugs the curve of your breasts. The jeans you wore today shows off your stunning shape. Everything his trainer was saying fell on deaf ears. He already knows everything. He’s undefeated. Right now, he just wants to focus on you. How can you look so tantalizing when simply pouring buckets of ice?

“König.” Horangi snaps his fingers in his face. “Are you listening to me?”

“Ja, ja. I know it all already.”

Horangi shakes his head at König’s cocky attitude. His eyes follow König’s gaze landing on you, giving you a quick up down before turning back. “Focus.” His hand on König’s shoulder, he leads him away to the back to get ready.

As you turn your head, you watch König’s eyes drift from your form to the ground as he gets guided away. A small smirk crosses your lips. You always catch him checking you out, but he makes no moves.

The day goes on and people flood the arena and fill seats. A line begins to form as you and your fellow bartender work in sync to make sure all patrons' orders get filled. As you bend down to grab a bottle of grenadine, you hear König being announced in the ring. Quickly, you perk up and watch as König walks out in his boxer shorts with the Austrian flag on them. His opponent being a 6 '4 Russian man, while he’s massive, he’s no match for König.

König’s eyes land on you as you smile brightly at a man accepting a drink from your delicate hands. He shifts his gaze to his opponent as people in the crowd cheer for both men. König gazes down at him with his icy blue stare and a stoic face.

From behind the bar, your eyes drift down König’s muscular body, which is sporadically littered with scars. You watch the fight begin as you continue to pass out drinks and chat with patrons. When König takes a hard hit, you watch with a worried look, glancing away and focusing on the man before you asking for another beer.

At the end of the fight, König’s arm rises to celebrate another win. The crowd cheers loudly, the losers coming to the bar to close tabs or get stronger drinks. König stands on stage posing for the crowd with two ring girls on their side of him. He respectfully keeps his hands to himself, his eyes finding you at the bar. For a split second in time, you meet his gaze and he smiles at you. The smile you give back sets a fire within him. When he hears his name being called, he looks forward, stepping into another pose with the women before exiting the ring.

As the night winds down, you begin to clean the bar and restock for tomorrow. The girl you work with heading out early since she has a family to tend to. As your back is turned from the bar you can hear someone lean against the counter. You turn, expecting to see one of the lingering patrons, but instead it’s König. He’s wearing a black shirt with his boxer shorts still, a fresh bruise on his left cheek bone.

“Hey König.”

“Hallo.” He shamelessly drops his gaze down to your breasts before looking back into your eyes. He combs his fingers through his messy blonde hair.

“Congratulations on the fight.”

“Danke.” König leans into the counter more, eyeing you. “How was your night? It looked pretty busy over here.” He has no idea how to flirt with you, he’s used to being cocky and the women tossing themselves at him. For some reason, you always make him nervous.

“Yeah, it was a good night for tips.” You smile and rest your palms on the counter top. “So, what can I get for you?”

“How about a celebratory shot?” He smirks.

“Coming right up.” You turn and grab the whisky you know he likes, pouring a shot for him before sliding it across to him.

You watch his Adam's apple bob as he takes the shot. His large hands wrap around the tiny glass making it appear much smaller. Once he places the glass back down, he turns his attention back to you.

“I saw you watching me.” He says in a semi flirty tone, testing the waters. “Did you enjoy the fight?”

“I did. It’s always exciting to watch you win.” You stroke his ego.

König smiles hearing your words. He watches as your turn to continue shutting down the bar. He knows every night you get hot water to melt the remaining ice so he stands, preparing to help you with the heavy bucket of water. Without asking, he grabs the bucket from your hand gently; his rough skin caressing yours slightly.

“I’ve got the water.” He says simply before walking off to fill it in the kitchen area.

“Oh, thank you.” As you watch him walk away you stand there suppressing a giddy smile. You turn and continue to clean the area.

König walks back with the bucket full of steaming hot water and carefully walks past you with it. He lifts it so effortlessly, pouring it over the remaining ice. Your eyes focus on the way his burly arms flex ever so slightly. He can definitely feel your stare, turning his head to see you looking at him.

You quickly look away feeling ashamed for getting caught looking. Trying to distract from the tension you walk away to the storage room to grab things needed to restock the bar for tomorrow’s fight. König’s eyes follow you as you walk away. He puts down the bucket and follows behind you.

The door closes behind you when you step into the room. You grab the step stool and walk to where the little toothpicks are stored. As you step up, you hear the door open and close. Before you can even turn around you feel his hands wrap around your waist.

“Now you’re closer to my height.” König whispers. On the step stool you come up to his chin now versus before you only reached his chest. Without getting you off balance, he leans you back so your back is pressed against his chest.

“König.” You giggle saying his name, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush as his arms embrace you.

“What?” König chuckles, enjoying the sound of your giggle. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.” He presses his face into the crook of your neck and smells your sweat from a long day of working the bar.

A shiver runs down your spine and goosebumps rise on your skin as he presses his lips against your neck; his lips moist and tender against your flesh. Slowly, he moves his under your shirt, caressing your stomach and moving up until his hand cups your breasts through your bra. His kisses turn steamier as he gropes you.

“Do you know how distracting you are? You make it impossible to focus on my fights when all I can think of is touching your body like this.” His voice is dripping with a primal desire for your body.

König turns you around to face him, his hand slipping out from your shirt and holding your waist. His other hand caresses the side of your face, cupping it in his hand. “Beautiful.” He leans in and kisses your lips. A spark ignites throughout his whole body as he finally tastes your sweet lips.

Your hands rest on his muscular chest, eyes closed as you allow yourself to melt into the romantic embrace with König. His hand on your waist dropping down to your hip, pressing you closer to him so you can feel his erection.

“You drive me crazy, Schatzi. Do you want me?” His voice deeper as he leans back in to claim your lips in a sensual kiss.

“Mhm, yes.” You manage to mumble out.

König’s fingers reach down and begin to undo your pants. A wave of excitement rushes through your body but also a bit of nervousness. Public sex isn’t something you’ve ever done nor considered, especially not at your place of work. Yet, you don’t protest, letting him pull your pants down. Once they are around your thighs, his fingers instantly find your clit through the fabric of your underwear, making small circles to pull moans from you.

As he breaks the kiss he looks down at your face as you writhe in pleasure before him. His sleepy blue eyes glance down at your face, taking in how he is turning you into a puddle before him. The fabric of your panties damp, stirring a deep desire within him.

König wraps his arms around you, lifting you and walking you to press you up against a wall. He drops to his knees before you and pulls your pants down completely. Lifting one of your legs, he rests it over his shoulder. His lips press kisses over your clothed cunt, licking the wet spot and getting a taste of you. A quiet moan flees your lips, your eyes gazing down at him.

“You smell so… suß.” König says looking up at you.

A light heat spreads across your face, you’ve been busy on your feet so you know that the scent of your body wash has worn off. He just likes the way your naturally sweaty cunt smells, and for some reason that really turns you on.

The adrenaline for the fight mixes with the aroma wafting from your body, König becomes greedy and he just needs you. He pulls the wet fabric aside and swipes his tongue across your glistening folds, savoring the taste.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hold back anymore.” König quickly stands, his hands dropping his shorts quickly. His eyes dart around the room trying to figure out the best way to do this. His eyes look over your body for a moment. “Take them off.” He points to your underwear and you comply.

In a hurry, König grabs your wrist and pulls you to him. Your shirt is pulled off your body, tossed to the side as König looks at your full breasts in your black bra. He effortlessly lifts you, your legs resting in the crook of his arms. As he holds you, pressing your back against the wall, he takes his time to kiss your cleavage and admire just how gorgeous you truly are.

You can feel his cock lingering at the entrance of your vagina, slightly pressing in as he kisses and bites all over your breasts. He slowly inches forward with his hips until he can feel your welcoming warmth wrap around the tip of his cock. His low groan is met with your light moan. Your walls hug him tightly, fluttering as they adjust to his size.

“Fuck, y/n. You’re fucking…tight.” The word ‘tight’ comes out in a growl.

With your legs on his arms, he rests his hands on your back, hips slowly thrusting forward into you. His lips explore your tender flesh up to your mouth. He places soft kisses on your lips while mumbling sweet words to you in German that you don’t understand.

“Pull your bra down.” He demands as he watches your hands pull your breasts out of your bra. The fabric squeezes them together as they bounce lightly with each thrust.

He steps away from the wall and moves his hands down to your ass. His muscles flex as he bounces you on his cock. The feeling of your gummy cunt sending him into a trance like state, his eyes following the way your supple flesh ripples with every harsh thrust.

“König!” You moan out, almost yelling. His thick cock slams into you without mercy, fucking you senseless. Your nails dig into his arms as your eyes flutter back. “Please…”

König watches your face now, taking in every detail and savoring every sound. “That’s it, you’re taking me so well. Diese Muschi ist perfekt.”

“Yes.” You gasp out. “Please fuck me, König.”

“Das ist es, Baby.”

His blue eyes are now black from dilation. Hearing you beg for him triggered a primal instinct in him. You’re his. This is his pussy. He slams you down on his cock, making sure to stuff you with every single inch.

Horangi walks throughout the gym looking for König, he’s nowhere to be found. He walks out to the ring to see if maybe he went back out to just sit, still not there. As he glances around, he can hear a slapping sound in the distance, curious, he follows it.

The sound begins to mix with moans and loud dirty talk in German. König is fucking that bartender. Horangi runs his hand over his face and lets out a deep annoyed sigh. Now isn’t the time for König to become infatuated with this woman even further, which he knows he will be. Horangi stands there and listens to König’s whimpers and your borderline screaming. He decides to just walk away and let König finish, he will talk to him about this later.

359 notes · View notes

imjustatorturedpoet · 18 days ago

Text

Meet me in the Hallway

chapter 8: welcome to my breaking point

pairing: hwang in-ho x reader

also available on ao3

word count: 8.7k

-----

The arena was massive, but it felt suffocating.

It was impossibly vast, a circular stage bordered by fifty vividly coloured doors. At the centre stood a carousel—not a functioning one, but a relic frozen in time. Its painted horses stood eerily still, their glossy eyes reflecting the sterile lights above. The entire setup felt like a mockery of childhood wonder, a carnival-themed nightmare dressed in bright colours to disguise the horrors lurking beneath. Bright, playful, festive—designed to look inviting.

It felt wrong. All of it. A grotesque parody of something that should have been safe.

You couldn’t move for a moment. Couldn’t do anything but take it all in, your mind scrambling to understand the twisted logic behind it. Your pulse quickened, a faint ringing beginning at the base of your skull.

Beside you, the others walked forward slowly, but still caught in the same silence. You quickly averted your gaze back to the group and followed them with hurried steps.

Then, the voice came.

“The game you will be playing is Mingle.”

Your stomach lurched. Your steps slowed as your group neared the edge of the platform, exchanging wary glances.

“Let me repeat: The game you will be playing is Mingle.”

Your fingers twitched. You swallowed hard. Another game you didn’t know.

The announcer continued, her voice detached and clinical.

“All players, please step onto the centre platform. When the game starts, the platform will begin to rotate, and you will hear a number. You must form groups of that size, go into the rooms, and close the door within 30 seconds.”

The words felt like they had weight, pressing down on your chest, squeezing.

Your blood ran cold as the instructions sank in. This was life and death.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides as your mind started racing. This game wasn’t just about moving fast. It was about forming alliances in real-time, making split-second decisions. Who would be left behind? Who would hesitate? Would people break alliances to save themselves?

Your breathing quickened. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

Jung-bae’s voice cut through the mounting hum of voices. “Oh, this game? We used to play something like this on school trips. We’d form groups by hugging.”

“Yeah,” Dae-ho muttered, scanning the room. “Except now, instead of hugging, we’re going into those rooms.”

Your group instinctively tightened into a loose half-circle, drawn together by sheer survival instinct. But it wouldn’t be enough. You knew it wouldn’t.

Your eyes widened and you turned to Young-il. You lowered your voice so only he would hear you, “If I turn away for a second and you’re gone, Young-il, you better pray I don’t survive.”

Young-il huffed a quiet chuckle, tilting his head.

"Oh? So now my biggest threat isn’t this game, it's you?" His lips quirked up at the corner. "Terrifying."

You shot him a look, a wide smile appearing on your face. "You should be scared. Very scared."

He exhaled through his nose, amused. "Right. And what’s my punishment if I disappear?"

You crossed your arms. “You’re one move away from seeing stars."

Young-il let out a low hum, tapping his chin in mock thought. “Damn. I’d like to see you try.”

Your glare sharpened. “Oh, yeah? Go on then.”

His smirk deepened, but this time, his eyes lingered on you a little longer. Then, with an easy shrug, he murmured, "I won’t."

Young-il’s fingers curled around your shoulder. The panic that had been climbing your throat long forgotten. Not gone, but suddenly contained. He didn’t pull you in, didn’t tighten his grip—just held you steady. A quiet reassurance. His fingers curled slightly, like he was anchoring you just as much as you were anchoring him.

His voice was soft, but steady. “On a more serious note, I won’t leave you. Nothing will happen to you. Or me.”

You trusted him, no matter how scared you were.

You nodded stiffly, forcing your breath to steady, forcing your body to still. Gi-hun was already strategising. “If the number is bigger than six, we’ll just grab the extra people we need. We’ll stick close together as long as possible.”

“But what if it’s smaller?” Dae-ho asked, voicing the same fear that had been sitting in your gut. “What if it’s four or five?”

What if I was the one left behind? Worse—what if Young-il was?

His hand moved from your shoulder to your waist and pulled you closer to him, like he knew you were thinking it. Like he knew exactly where your thoughts were spiralling.

“No matter what happens,” Young-il said, calm and sure, “don’t panic. Let’s stay calm. We will make it out together.”

It wasn’t an if. It was a statement.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, clenching and unclenching. Young-il noticed. His gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing.

Then, his head lowered to your ear and he whispered, "You're thinking too much," he said simply, tone softer than usual. "Stop."

You exhaled, shoving the thought aside. "Just do as I say and you’ll be fine.”

The certainty in his tone did something to you. Slowed the panic just slightly, just enough for you to breathe again. He turned to the others again and extended his right hand toward the centre of the circle.

For a second, nobody moved. Then, slowly, you reached out first. Your palm pressed against his, cold against warm. His fingers twitched slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to be the first to take it.

The others followed soon after, hands stacking over one another. The breath between you all felt heavy, like the moment just before a storm hit.

Young-il spoke first, voice low and steady. “One, two, three…”

The response came in unison, whispered but strong.

“Victory at all costs.”

The moment stretched for just a second longer before your hands fell away. The platform stood before you, waiting. The lights above seemed brighter now, the doors looming like silent threats.

The rules had been given. The game was about to begin. And all you could do was hope you wouldn’t be the one left behind.

As Young-il let go of you, all of you stepped onto the platform, moving as one, instinctively drawn together amid the growing sea of players. Bodies pressed in from all sides, the air thick with tension, with the unspoken fear of what was to come. Your group stayed close, forming a tight knot in the chaos, an unspoken pact holding you together.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted them—Hyun-ju and her group.

They were positioned right beside you, their presence impossible to ignore. Their postures were tense, their expressions guarded, scanning the room the same way you were.

After the last game, there was a quiet understanding between you. Having them close felt almost… reassuring.

Your gaze wandered through the arena once more, when your eyes landed on a peculiar screen. The numbers displayed were bold, impossible to ignore. 255.

Dread curled low in your belly.

It was a countdown. A tally of everyone left. Of everyone still breathing. And you knew what it meant. Another way to remind you that the numbers could—and would—drop. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering as you stared at it, heart lurching with a sudden, sick realisation. It wasn’t just a tracker. It was a tactic.

A constant, looming reminder that at the end of this game, people would be gone. That every time you looked up, the number would be smaller. And it could go down, because of you.

Your breath came faster, shallow, uneven. This was psychological warfare. Just like the piggy bank, just like the first vote. Fear bred desperation, and desperation made people dangerous. You could already feel it in the air, in the tense way players glanced around, already sizing each other up like potential liabilities. Like obstacles.

You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but your chest felt tight, constricted.

No, no, no. Not now. Not again.

But the panic was creeping in anyway, slithering under your skin, curling tight around your ribs. You barely heard the announcer’s voice over the ringing in your ears, your thoughts spiralling as the weight of the situation settled, reallysettled.

What if I'm alone?

Your breath hitched, and suddenly, the platform felt too small. The bodies pressing in around you, the hum of anxious murmurs, the overwhelming sense of being trapped—you couldn’t breathe.

A touch. Warm. Steady. Grounding. Fingers curled around your waist, firm but not forceful.

"Nothing will happen to you," Young-il murmured, voice low, meant only for you.

Your body locked up, but your breath stilled. He wasn’t looking at you, his attention still fixed forward, his grip not tight but assured. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just empty reassurance. Like he wouldn’t let anything happen to you, no matter the cost.

And for the first time since stepping onto this platform, since seeing that goddamn screen, you felt like you could breathe.

“Let the game begin.”

A sharp inhale caught in your throat as the platform beneath you jerked to life, moving with a slow, deliberate spin. Around you, players stumbled, muttered curses and sharp gasps filling the space as everyone fought to steady themselves. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was disorienting—just enough to throw you off balance, to remind you that you weren’t in control.

And then the music started. Bright. Nostalgic. Sickly sweet.

It snaked through the air, light and playful, curling through the space like a taunt. A melody pulled straight from childhood, but wrong, twisted in the way it didn’t belong here. A wave of nausea rolled through you.

“Round and round.

Round and round we go.

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along.”

Something cold settled deep in your stomach. The song continued, high-pitched and cheery, the kind of thing meant for playgrounds and skipping ropes—not for this. Not for this nightmare dressed up in carnival lights. The overhead bulbs flickered in a rhythmic pattern, casting shifting colours across the room, making everything feel even more surreal.

The dizziness clawed at you, the spin, the lights, the music— It was too much.

Your eyes darted around, searching for something, anything to ground yourself, until they landed on him. Young-il.

He was standing right beside you, steady as ever. Completely unfazed. His shoulders were relaxed, his posture loose. The artificial glow from above carved sharp shadows across his face, making him look impossibly calm.

How was he so calm?

His eyes met yours before you even realised you had been staring. You forced yourself to swallow, to breathe, but it wasn’t working. The numbers on the screen above the entrance loomed in the back of your mind, a constant, gnawing reminder of what was coming. They wanted you to see it. The number of players dwindling. A visible countdown to ensure panic and desperation.

It was working, at least on me. Good for them.

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Your breath came too fast, too shallow, and you knew what was happening, you knew, but that didn’t make it stop. You reached for him before you could think about it. Fingers curling around his sleeve. Holding on. Tight.

Young-il glanced down immediately, his gaze flickering to your grip, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you hold on. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. That nod was everything. The music carried on.

“We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round

Ring-a Ring-a Ring”

Your grip tightened. You weren’t sure if you were steadying yourself or clinging to the only thing that felt solid in this moment. Maybe both.

“You’re breathing too fast,” he murmured, voice low, even. “Slow down.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you forced yourself to follow his words, pulling in a shaky inhale, then another. His fingers pressed just slightly against your waist, grounding. “Good. Just like that.”

Then—everything stopped. The music. The platform. Everything.

The sudden halt sent a jolt through your body, your balance thrown before you could react. You stumbled, the ground feeling like it had been ripped out from under you, panic crashing through your chest in a violent wave. But before you could fall, a hand caught you. Warm against your waist. His other hand caught your elbow, his grip solid, keeping you upright. His thumb brushed against the dip of your waist, a barely-there motion, but enough. Enough to anchor you.

A second passed. And then the voice of the announcer rang through the silence.

“Ten.”

The overhead lights pulsed in rapid bursts of red and purple, casting the arena in a dizzying, disorienting blur. Your pulse spiked, as the urgency in the air thickened, heavy and suffocating. Then, chaos.

Voices rose around you, sharp and desperate. Bodies moved in frantic bursts, hands grabbing, pulling, shoving as players scrambled to form their groups. The panic was contagious, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, feeding into itself, turning rational thought into raw desperation.

A sudden grip on your arm made you jolt. You turned sharply, breath catching, only to find Young-il’s hand wrapped firmly around your forearm. His fingers pressed just enough to ground you, to remind you he was there with you.

Around you, your group was already moving. Gi-hun’s gaze snapped toward Hyun-ju and her people nearby. Without hesitation, he stepped toward her, hand brushing against her shoulder.

“How many are you?” he asked, voice steady despite the rising panic.

“Four,” Hyun-ju shot back immediately.

Gi-hun’s head turned sharply toward the rest of you. “We’re ten now!” he called out, his voice slicing through the noise.

“Come with me and don’t let go,” Young-il commanded, his tone leaving no room for hesitation. Then, he moved. Fast.

Before you could think, before you could process, his grip tightened, pulling you with him as he cut through the crowd. You barely had time to register the others falling in step behind you, Hyun-ju’s team blending seamlessly with your own as Young-il led the charge. Your feet barely kept up, your breath was sharp, uneven, but you focused on the tug of his hand, on the way his grip was certain.

Ahead, a door loomed. One of many.

Young-il reached it first, yanking it open with a sharp motion. His body twisted, gaze locking onto yours. “Get in.”

You didn’t hesitate. You darted inside and stood near the entrance, the rush of bodies following closely behind. One by one, they poured into the room. Young-il was last.

He lingered at the threshold for half a second longer than necessary, scanning the arena one last time before stepping inside and pulling the door shut with a firm, final click.

Silence.

The room was small, barely large enough to hold all ten of you, but compared to the chaos outside, it felt like a fortress.

Overhead, a timer glowed on the wall, the numbers ticking down in bright, merciless red.

2… 1…

Your chest rose and fell too fast. You couldn’t look away. The sound of your heartbeat thundered in your ears.

Young-il’s hand reached out to you and gave the faintest squeeze. A long, piercing beep rang out, the finality of it sinking into your bones. Then, the lock clicked into place.

The screams started almost immediately.

Muffled cries and sobs seeped through the thick wood of the door, bleeding into the tense silence of the room. You barely had a second to process before your gaze caught on something—a rectangular slot near the centre of the door. A viewing panel.

Gi-hun stepped forward and looked through. You hesitated. You knew you shouldn’t look. But morbid curiosity clawed at you, sinking its hooks in deep. Before you could stop yourself, your feet carried you forward. You peered through the slot, alongside Gi-hun.

The sight outside turned your blood to ice.

They’re dying.

That was the first thought that cut through the static in your brain. The first thing you managed to grasp in the overwhelming, suffocating chaos.

They’re dying. One by one.

Collapsing like puppets with their strings severed, bodies hitting the pristine floor with dull, wet thuds. The sound was barely audible over the gunfire, but you could feel it. The way the ground beneath you seemed to tremble. The way something inside your chest coiled so tightly you thought you might snap in half. Your and Gi-hun’s body jolted as if you had been the one hit.

They’re dying.

Not players. Not numbers on a screen. People. People who were just standing there moments ago, eyes darting, hands scrambling, looking for an escape that didn’t exist. Now they were still.

The first few had been too fast, too sudden for your mind to register. But then you saw one—really saw one.

A man. Maybe in his forties. You hadn’t spoken to him. Hadn’t even noticed him before now. He had his hands pressed against a door that wouldn’t open, his nails digging into the metal like he could pry his way inside if he just tried hard enough. You could see the desperation in the set of his shoulders, in the way his breath hitched.

And then a single shot. He jerked violently. Then crumpled. Just like that.

A high-pitched scream cut through the air, raw and wrong. You flinched. Someone stumbled. Fell. Their hands outstretched toward nothing, their lips forming words they never got the chance to say. Another shot. Another body.

The number on the screen was already dropping.

Don’t look.

You forced yourself to turn away, to stare at the floor in front of you, at the people in the room with you. The ones who made it. The ones still breathing. Your legs felt locked in place, stiff, heavy. Your hands trembled where they curled at your sides.

I made it.

That should have been enough. But the thought lingered, curling around your ribs like something rotten.

What if I hadn’t? What if my foot had slipped? What if my hand had missed his? Would I still be out there? Would he have even turned back?

The gunfire was slowing now. The screams were fading. The arena outside was quieting. Bodies littered the floor, unmoving. Not players. People. And you watched.

You stumbled off to the side, your shoulder slamming into the wall. You didn’t realise your legs were shaking until you nearly lost your balance. The images were already burned into the back of your eyelids. You couldn’t stop hearing it. The shots. The screams. The silence that followed.

A firm hand found your waist. Fingers pressed lightly into your side, just enough to remind you where you were. Who you were with.

“Breathe.”

The voice was low, even. But when you looked up, Young-il’s face was full of concern, his lips pressed in a firm line. His grip on you didn’t tighten, didn’t waver. Just remained there—present, unwavering. His voice dipped lower, quieter. Just for you.

“None of that is happening to you,” he murmured. “Do you understand?”

You swallowed, throat tight, nodding slightly.

“Say it,” he pressed, not unkindly.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past your lips in a mere whisper. “It’s not happening to me.”

Young-il held your gaze for a beat longer before giving a small, approving nod. And just like that, the moment passed. His hand fell away, taking his warmth with it. But the steadiness it left in its wake remained.

“The following players have been eliminated: Player 013, 043, 049, 054, 060…”

You try to drown out the mechanical voice as best as you could. Minutes passed in heavy silence, the only sounds filtering through the door were the distant shuffling of boots, the scrape of bodies being dragged, the wet splatter of something you refused to name. The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, even from behind closed doors, seeping into your lungs, clinging to your skin like something permanent.

Click.

The lock disengaged with a dull, mechanical sound, the finality of it settling over you like a weight. One by one, your group stepped forward, filing out into the arena. You followed, your legs stiff, your pulse drumming against your ribs.

The moment you crossed the threshold, the smell hit you harder. Coppery. Sharp. It clung to everything—the floors, the walls, the very air you breathed. And then you saw it.

The blood. It was everywhere.

Dark pools stretching across the pristine floor, smeared in streaks where bodies had been dragged away. Some of it had begun to dry, thickening in ugly patches, while fresh streaks still glistened under the harsh lights. Footsteps tracked through it, careless and indifferent, as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be wiped away. A fresh wave of nausea curled in your stomach, but you shoved it down, locked it up, buried it beneath something colder.

Get it together. Focus on your breathing. In. Out. Keep it steady. Don’t let them see. Don’t make yourself an easy target.

You squared your shoulders, forced your muscles to relax, forced your face into something neutral—something unreadable. The same way you always had. The same way you always would. Fake it till you make it.

You stepped forward, deliberately avoiding the larger pools of blood, careful not to let your shoes smear through it. Not because it mattered—it was already everywhere—but because you refused to let it touch you. Not more than it already had. You exhaled a loud sigh, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Well. That sucked.”

Young-il’s gaze flickered to you. He didn’t answer right away, just studied you with that quiet, infuriating patience of his. Like he was waiting for you to drop the act.

Then, finally, he hummed. “That's what we’re calling it?”

You stepped over a streak of blood without breaking stride. “What else am I supposed to call it?” Your voice was steady. Casual. Too casual. “We didn’t die. Could’ve been worse.”

His eyes didn’t leave you. “You were shaking.”

Your jaw tightened for half a second. Then, with a careless shrug, you shot him a look. “And now I’m not.”

It was a lie. You were still shaking. Just… on the inside. He tilted his head slightly. You caught the way his jaw ticked, the way his fingers flexed slightly at his sides before curling into a loose fist. He saw right through you. Of course he did. But he didn’t call you on it.

He saw the tension in your shoulders, the way your hands twitched like they wanted to curl into something solid. He saw the way your breath came just a little too fast, the way your muscles were coiled just a little too tight. Instead, he let out a low hum. “Guess that’s one way to look at it.”

The rest of the group moved forward. You kept your chin up. Kept your steps steady. No one had to know that every inch of you was still trembling beneath the mask.

The second round passed in a blur, tension clawing at the edges of your mind even as you forced yourself to move, to react, to survive. The number had been four. Your group didn’t stay together and you were forced to part ways with Young-il and Gi-hun. It all happened too fast. The moment the number was called, the platform erupted into chaos, bodies moving in every direction, scrambling for safety. Young-il shoved you in Dae-ho’s arms and told you to go. His face said everything; Don’t argue and go.

But he promised me?

No time to think about that right now. You grabbed the nearest person—Jun-hee—and barely had time to latch onto Jung-bae before the frantic rush toward the doors began. In those thirty seconds, you lost sight of everything but the desperate need to make it through. Not everyone would. The buzzer blared. The doors slammed shut. Gunshots soon followed.

You stopped flinching at the sound—mostly. But as you leaned against the closed door, breathing hard, the weight of it pressed down on you. It was impossible not to think about who was still out there. Who might not have made it.

Young-il. Gi-hun.

You hadn’t seen where they went. You hadn’t seen if they found two more people. The thought made you want to throw up, panic gnawing at the edges of your mind. Your pulse was a hammer, each second stretching unbearably. You tried to tell yourself they were fine. That they had to be fine. That people like Young-il didn’t just disappear in an instant. But you knew that wasn’t true.

The seconds bled into minutes. The screaming outside died down. Then, silence. The mechanical whirr of the clean-up. The guards moving with calculated efficiency. You barely registered it. You needed the doors to open. You needed to see them.

Finally, the locks clicked open. You swung the door open, and you pushed through, your head snapping up, eyes scanning the thinning crowd with frantic precision.

Jun-hee was by your side, holding her belly and trying to control her frantic breathing. Soon, Dae-ho appeared by your side, ”Do you see them?"

No. No.

The empty spaces where bodies had once stood made the room feel impossibly vast. Your gaze swept over every face, your heart slamming harder with every second that passed.

"(Y/N)!"

You held your breath. You spun around so fast you almost lost your footing. There. Across the arena. Young-il, standing at the edge of the crowd, Gi-hun beside him. The relief hit you so hard it was almost painful.

You didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. Didn’t stop yourself. You ran.

Not like yesterday. Not like after the second game, when you had forced yourself to freeze, to pull back at the last second, to pretend that the instinct wasn’t there. This time, you didn’t stop. Your feet barely touched the ground as you closed the distance, pushing past other players without care. And then—finally—you reached him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in before you could think twice. Warm. Alive.

Young-il stiffened for a half-second, caught off guard, but then he pulled you in.

His grip was firm, grounding, one arm tight around your waist while the other slid up, fingers threading through your hair, cradling the back of your head.

He wasn’t a man easily shaken, but the way he pulled you in, the way his hand curled just slightly against your spine, told you enough. He had been just as scared as you were.

You buried your face against his chest, breathing him in, heart still racing against your ribs. You didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t care if anyone saw.

Young-il exhaled, a slow, steady breath against your ear. His voice was quieter than usual. Less controlled. "I told you not to worry."

“Doesn't work like that. Not with you. Don’t ever do that again. You promised.”

Young-il's grip on you tightened just slightly, the warmth of his palm pressing firm against your back. His breath hitched—barely, but you felt it.

"I know," he murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something almost regretful. "I know."

You clenched your fists against his jacket. "Then why the hell did you let go?"

"I had to," he admitted, his voice quiet but unwavering. "But I won’t again."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your pulse still hammering in your ears. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark, sharp, searching—were anything but indifferent. He was watching you too closely, like he needed to make sure you believed him.

And maybe you did. Maybe you didn’t.

Either way, he deserved this. Without thinking, your fist shot out and smacked his arm—hard.

Young-il lurched back slightly, like you’d just stabbed him instead of hit him. He grabbed his arm with an exaggerated wince, staring at you in open-mouthed betrayal, eyes widening in mock betrayal. "Ow—what the hell?!”

"You deserved that." You flexed your fingers, shaking out your knuckles. "And if you ever pull that shit again, I swear I’ll make it worse."

Young-il blinked, still clutching his arm like you’d actually done damage. "I just risked my life getting us both through that round, and this is my reward?"

"Your reward is that I didn’t aim for your face."

He scoffed, rubbing his arm in slow, exaggerated circles. "I think you fractured something. I can’t move my shoulder."

You rolled your eyes and laughed loudly. "You’re so full of shit."

He gasped, feigning offence, but you could tell that he was fighting a smirk. "You hit me with intent. I felt malice. There was rage in that punch."

You raised a brow. "You’re about to feel it again."

Young-il immediately dropped the act, hands up in surrender, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. "Okay, okay. Point made."

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Good. Let’s keep it that way."

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer. Then, softer, quieter— "I really won’t leave you again."

You sighed, the weight of the moment settling between you. "You better not."

A sharp mechanical beep cut through the dormitory, signalling the next round was about to begin.

"Come on," he murmured, voice softer now. "We have to go again."

The words sent a fresh wave of unease rippling through you. Again. The game wasn’t over. Not even close. The fear that had gripped you moments ago wasn’t a one-time thing—it would happen again, and again, until there was no one left to lose.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move. To focus. To push past the lingering warmth of his embrace and the way your chest still ached from the last thirty seconds of sheer panic. Because the carousel was already spinning again, the music was starting, and another number would be called.

The third and fourth round was much worse. People weren’t just scrambling anymore—they were fighting. Someone shoved you in desperation, nearly sending you to the ground before Young-il pulled you back. The numbers were three and six this time, and you barely managed to make it inside a room before the buzzer blared both times. And the gunshots on the other side were getting less and less per round.

The first time someone died in front of you, it had felt like your own lungs had been ripped out. The gunshots had echoed in your skull long after they stopped, rattling your bones, your breath hitching every time the trigger was pulled.

But now?

Now the sound barely registered. The fourth round had ended, another group of players executed in the middle of the arena, and you didn’t even flinch. You barely even looked. Just kept walking, stepping around the fresh blood without a second thought.

You caught Young-il watching you. His dark eyes flicked down to your hands, curled loosely at your sides—steady, not even trembling. He didn’t say anything. But you could feel the thought lingering between you.

When had you stopped reacting? You didn’t have an answer.

For hopefully the last time, all of you shifted back to the platform. This time, your group and Hyun-ju’s group stood together, with player 246, 280 and 333 joining you as well. But the relief of finding each other didn’t last. Something felt… off.

A quick scan of the faces around you sent a cold weight pressing into your chest. One was missing.

Young-mi.

Your stomach dropped.

“Where’s Young-mi?”

No one answered. A silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

Hyun-ju’s face said it all.

Your stomach twisted, but it was distant. Muted. You should cry. You should feel something more than this quiet, dull acceptance. But the tears didn’t come.

Instead, you just nodded.

"Okay," you murmured under your breath, as if that was all there was to say.

Something inside you cracked.

The platform beneath you groaned as it started to rotate once more, the familiar, sickly sweet melody curling through the air. That same eerie, high-pitched cheerfulness, now warped by everything that had happened. The contrast was unbearable.

The announcer’s voice rang out, slicing through the heavy silence like a blade.

"Now, the final round will begin."

For a second—just one fleeting second—relief crashed over you. Final.

This was it. The last round. One more number. One last push. One last chance to survive. But relief was a fragile thing. It barely had time to settle in your chest before something colder, sharper, meaner replaced it. Because final didn’t mean safe.

Final meant when this round ended, more people wouldn’t be standing here. That whatever number was called next would carve names into the floor in blood. That the game wasn’t ending—it was culling. One last round.

Your gaze flickered up—drawn to the screen hanging above the entrance.

126.

Your stomach dropped.

One hundred twenty-six players left. But only 50 rooms.

A slow, creeping dread curled up your spine.

Two. The last number is two. That means 26 people would die this round. Maybe more. If someone hesitated. If someone got left behind at the last second. Pairs.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. Instinct. Pure, primal instinct. You reached for Young-il’s hand without a second thought, fingers latching onto his, tethering. Like hell you were letting him wander off again.

Jung-bae stepped in closer, voice taut, strained. “What do you think it’ll be this time?”

Gi-hun was already deep in thought, brows furrowed, but before he could open his mouth—

“Two.” The word left your lips at the exact same time as Young-il’s.

A sharp pause. Like a crack in the air.

Every pair of eyes in your group snapped to you both. But you were only looking at him.

Jung-bae frowned. “Why?”

Young-il’s expression didn’t shift. His thumb caressed your hand. “There are 126 people left,” he said, voice even. “And only 50 rooms.”

Your throat felt tight, but you forced the words out, finishing his thought, “That means there’s only enough space for 100 people.”

Dae-ho stiffened. Jun-hee sucked in a sharp breath. The weight of it settled. Tangible. Crushing. You swallowed hard, the words tasting like lead on your tongue, “The rest will be killed.”

“Everyone pair up right now," Gi-hun urged, voice tight, sharp.

"And move to the edge of the platform so you can run as soon as they announce it.”, you added.

Everyone quickly grabbed someones hand. Without thinking, Player 333’s hand found Jun-hee’s, his fingers curling around hers. She went rigid for a moment, her eyes darting to his—uncertain, searching. But she didn’t pull away. You’d seen them talk before, distant. But never like this.

Was he the father of her child? God, how tragic.

Your own grip tightened around Young-il’s. His fingers curled back just as firmly, solid, grounding.

“Come on,” he murmured, voice low, urgent. Then, he moved. And you followed, letting him pull you toward the edge of the platform, where the moment of truth awaited.

“Round and round

Round and round we go

Turning, turning in a circle as we dance along

We will go hand in hand

And have fun jumping around

Round and round”

Suddenly, the platform lurched to a stop.

The rotation ceased so abruptly that it sent players stumbling, gasps ripping through the crowd as the music cut out. But the silence barely lasted a second before the fast-paced melody blared back to life, louder, shriller, more urgent.

The overhead lights pulsed violently—red and purple, turning the arena into a dizzying, chaotic blur.

Then, the voice.

"Two."

A tidal wave of movement exploded around you. Without hesitation, Young-il tighten his grasp on your hand and ran. The platform swarmed with bodies, the scramble for survival more violent than ever before. You barely had time to register anything beyond the crushing urgency in your chest, the way Young-il’s grip on your hand was unrelenting as he pulled you through the madness.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the rest of your group scattering—Hyun-ju and 246 sprinting toward a blue door, Gi-hun and Jung-bae pushing through the crowd. Everyone was desperate to make it out.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

Suddenly, a force slammed into your side, so hard it sent you reeling. Your fingers slipped from Young-il’s grasp. You didn’t even have time to scream before you hit the ground. Your hands smacked against the cold, blood-slicked floor, the force rattling through your bones.

"Young-il!" The scream ripped from your throat, sheer terror clawing at your chest as you stumbled.

He was there in an instant. His grip latched onto your arm like iron, hauling you forward with so much force that your feet barely touched the ground. You barely caught sight of his expression—livid—before he was dragging you through the chaos again.

You blinked at him, slow. He was saying something, you could see his mouth moving, but your brain was sluggish, like your thoughts were wading through molasses.

Your arms ached. Your legs burned. Somewhere, you were pretty sure you had a gash along your shin, but you couldn’t feel it.

Actually, you couldn’t feel much of anything. Weird.

Then you came back to your senses. A door. You needed a door.

You saw one ahead—a red one, slightly ajar. Relief surged. Then it slammed shut.

Occupied.

You turned immediately, heading for a different one. A mustard yellow door stood open a few meters away. Two players were scrambling toward it—too far, too slow.

You could reach it first. But only if you—

The thought slithered in before you could stop it.

Shove them out of the way. Take the spot. They wouldn’t be fast enough anyway.

Your breath hitched. The moment you registered it, disgust curdled in your stomach.

What the hell was wrong with you?

But you didn’t shove them. You just ran. Still, the thought didn’t leave. It lingered, curling around your ribs, whispering. Next time, would you?

Once you reached it, you realised that a player was standing in the threshold. Player 285.

Young-il let go of your arm and ripped him out. A choked gasp. A flash of panic in the man’s eyes. His hand clamped around his throat like a vice, and with terrifying ease, he tore him away from the doorway and threw him onto the floor.

"Get in, (Y/N)!” His voice was steel.

You didn’t argue. You bolted inside. Young-il followed a second later, slamming the door shut, locking it with a harsh, final click.

The relief was so intense that it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. But then—you turned. And your blood ran cold.

Player 343 was still inside.

The man was already backing up against the farthest wall, eyes darting between the two of you, chest heaving. "Wait, please. We were here first." His voice cracked, raw with desperation.

Young-il stepped forward. His stance was lethal.

"Get out."

The timer above the door flickered.

15 seconds.

The man flinched, raising his hands in surrender. "Please."

10 seconds.

He stepped forward, fast. Before you could process what was happening, his arms snapped around the man’s throat. A strangled wheeze—the sound of air being cut off instantly.

Player 285 lunged for the door, desperation twisting his face as he shoved against it with all his strength. But you were faster. You threw your entire weight forward, slamming it shut with enough force to rattle your bones. Your hands locked onto the handle, gripping it so tightly your knuckles burned.

A furious bang against the wood. Then another.

"Open the door, you bastards!" His voice cracked, raw with panic. "I was here first!"

Another sharp thud. The door trembled under the assault, but you didn’t budge. You pressed harder, chest heaving, every muscle locked in place.

Young-il crouched low, pivoting with terrifying precision, manoeuvring 343’s body into submission with ease.

You froze, eyes wide, unable to do anything but watch.

The man clawed at Young-il’s arms, his legs kicking wildly, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. His muscles flexed as he tightened his hold, squeezing.

3 seconds.

The world had narrowed down to the sharp, wet sound of Player 343’s gasps, to the way Young-il’s muscles flexed as he crushed the air from his lungs. But he was taking too long. The thought came out of nowhere—quick, instinctive, cold.

Just do it yourself.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath felt too slow, too steady, like your body had already decided before your brain caught up. You could end this in half a second—snap, clean, efficient.

One twist. It would be so easy.

And then it hit you. The sheer horror of what you were thinking. It crashed down like ice water, washing away the haze. You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to step back, fingers curling into fists at your sides.

What the hell is wrong with me?

The man struggled, hands clawing at Young-il’s arms, eyes wide with pure, animal panic. It was instinct. Desperate. But it didn’t matter. Young-il adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of his throat—tighter, harder. The gurgling turned to choking, then silence. It didn’t happen fast. That was the worst part.

Young-il’s grip shifted. Sharpened. Then—crack. The man’s body jerked once. Then stilled. Your breathing stopped as Player 343’s head rolled to the side at a 120° angle.

The timer hit zero. A piercing beep.

"Game over."

The silence after the snap was worse than the sound itself. For a second, neither of you moved. The only sound in the room was your own heartbeat, roaring in your ears like a war drum. Young-il let the body fall and pushed it off his own. It hit the floor with a dull, final thud.

You lurched back, spine pressing into the wall—not because of him, but because of the thoughts twisting, snarling, sinking their teeth in.

What the fuck was wrong with you.

Your eyes snapped to Young-il. He was only looking at you. His breathing was even, unlike your own. Like he hadn’t just snapped a man’s neck in three seconds flat.

Then, the speaker crackled overhead.

“Attention. Due to a technical error, the doors will remain locked for longer. Please remain calm as we fix this problem. Thank you."

Trapped. In here. With him and your thoughts. And the body.

Oh, how nice. Fantastic.

You should feel something. Horror. Guilt. Revulsion. But you just… didn’t.

The exhaustion settled deep, thick and all-consuming, swallowing up whatever part of you was still supposed to care. It should have scared you, how easy it was to let go, how numb you felt.

You slowly turned your head to Young-il, who looked about as calm as someone waiting for a bus, then down at the very, very dead man at your feet.

Your heartbeat was steady. Too steady.

The realisation was slow, creeping, like a sickness curling through your veins. You waited for the horror to hit. For your stomach to churn. For something, anything, to claw its way up your throat.

But it never came.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“Cool. Love that for us.”

“Why are you so calm?” His voice wasn’t mocking—just genuinely perplexed. “You usually have a panic attack.”

You stared at him. Then at the dead man. Then back at him.

And something in you just… cracked.

A laugh bubbled up, sharp and humourless, slipping past your lips before you could stop it. You ran a shaky hand down your face, exhaling hard.

“I don’t know, Young-il,” you muttered, voice hollow with exhaustion. “Maybe I ran out of tears to cry.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer.

You let your head tip back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I think I just lost my last fuck to give. You choked the guy out, I didn’t stop you, and now we’re locked in here with a corpse like it’s just a normal Tuesday.” You let out a breathy, almost delirious chuckle. “So, honestly? I don’t even care anymore. Welcome to my breaking point.”

Silence. Too long.

You opened your eyes again, expecting another dry remark from him, another roll of his eyes. But what you found instead— It wasn’t that.

Young-il was staring at you. His expression had cracked, just slightly, just enough to let something else slip through the fractures. And then—he took a step back.

Not much. Barely an inch. But you noticed it. Young-il shook his head slowly, breath leaving him in something too soft, too unsteady.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. His jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists at his sides.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.” His voice was lower now, rougher, like the words themselves scraped against his throat. “I knew you’d change in here. I knew you’d have to.” A pause, as if the weight of his own words hit him mid-sentence. “But not like this.”

His eyes flicked to the corpse. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, finally, his gaze landed back on you.

"You were supposed to be the one thing that didn’t rot."

Something sharp twisted deep inside your chest. Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what could you possibly say to that?

Young-il dragged a hand down his face, eyes shutting for half a second before he let out a slow, measured breath. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter.

“I didn’t want this.” His gaze flicked toward the body, the blood. Then back to you. “Not for you.”

A strange, uncomfortable lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it down. Or at least, you tried to. But it sat there, heavy, lodged deep in your chest.

Because the thing was—he was wrong.

You weren’t rotting. You weren’t turning into some hollowed-out thing, some soulless husk that no longer cared. You still felt everything. You just… couldn’t afford to let it swallow you whole. Not now. Not when you were still fighting to survive.

But how could you explain that to him? How could you make him understand that this wasn’t you breaking, not really? That this numbness, this eerie calm, wasn’t some kind of irreversible descent into nothingness—but rather your brain’s last-ditch attempt to protect you?

You couldn’t. So instead, you just exhaled slowly, your gaze flicking to his, searching.

“You think I don’t care,” you said quietly. Not a question. A statement.

Young-il’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? That I’m just… gone. That I don’t feel anything anymore.”

He didn’t answer. Not immediately. But the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands twitched at his sides— That was enough.

You inhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair before shaking your head. “I do care, Young-il. I’ve cared all my life. I care so fucking much it hurts.” Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. “I just can’t afford to show it right now. Because if I do—if I let myself actually feel this—” Your voice wavered, just slightly. “It’s gonna break me.”

Young-il’s gaze searched yours, like he was trying to pick apart your words, to find a lie hidden somewhere between them. But there wasn’t one.

After a moment, his shoulders slumped slightly, tension bleeding out of him, but not completely. He sighed, running a hand down his face.

“So that’s it, then?” His voice was quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite name. “You’re just gonna go numb until it’s over?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Young-il exhaled a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “Fuck,” he muttered. “I hate this place.”

You huffed out something close to a laugh. “Yeah. Welcome to the club.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. You weren’t sure how much time passed. The scent of blood clung to the air. The corpse remained between you, an unmoving reminder of how far you’d already gone. Then, finally— Young-il stepped closer.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice steady now. “If that’s how you have to get through this—fine.” His eyes met yours, unwavering. “But don’t shut me out, alright?”

Something about the way he said it made your throat tighten. Your lips parted, instinct telling you to crack a joke, to keep the mood light, to deflect. But for once, you didn’t. Instead, you just nodded. “Okay.”

Young-il held your gaze for a second longer. Then, he sighed. Without a word, he stepped forward and pulled you in. It wasn’t careful, or hesitant, or any of the things you might have expected from him. It was rough, desperate—his arms wrapping tight around you, like he was holding onto something solid before the ground completely gave out beneath him.

Not because you needed it. But because he did.

You barely had time to react before your face was pressed against his chest, his scent surrounding you. You breathed him in. His fingers curled against the fabric of your clothes, grip unyielding. His breathing wasn’t steady. It wasn’t uneven either. It was just off. A fraction too deep. A second too slow. Like he was still trying to get control of something that had already slipped through his fingers.

You blinked, your hands hovering slightly at your sides, caught off guard. But only for a second. Slowly, you let your arms come up, hesitantly returning the embrace.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It just was. Then, finally—his voice, low and raw against your ear.

“You don’t get to lose yourself in here.” The words were quiet, firm. “Not you.”

You swallowed. “I’m not.”

His grip tightened, just slightly. “You better not be.”

You exhaled softly, letting your eyes slip shut for just a second. “I promise.”

Another beat of silence. Then, a breath. A slow, heavy inhale.

“I fucking hate this place.” His voice was strained now, rasping at the edges. “I hate what it does to people. I hate what it’s done to you.”

You swallowed hard but didn’t answer. You hated it, too.

Slowly, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. A long, controlled inhale. Then, a slower exhale. His hands shifted—one sliding up, the other following, cupping your face with a carefulness that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed lightly along your cheekbones. His breath hitched, just barely, like he was fighting something back.

“I won’t let you lose yourself in here.” he murmured, his voice lower now, rougher. “Not you.”

You swallowed, your hands instinctively gripping at his wrists, not to pull away, but to hold on. “I’m not losing myself.”

His fingers twitched against your jaw, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Dark. Intense. Like he was searching for something.

“You better not be,” he murmured

His grip tightened, just slightly, and something unspoken crackled between you—something thick, electric, thrumming under your skin. You were too close. His breath fanned across your lips, warm, uneven, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to pull away or close the distance.

The air between you was thin, charged. You could feel every inch of him, the way his chest rose and fell against yours, the heat of his hands on your skin.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Your breath faltered. His grip on your face didn’t waver. Your heart pounded, too loud, too fast. He was still so close, his lips just barely parted, his fingers brushing lower, skimming the edge of your jaw. His grip didn’t loosen. Neither did yours.

You weren’t sure which of you moved first—if it was him, if it was you, if it even mattered. But the space between you had never felt smaller.

"Attention all players. The technical issues have been resolved. You may now step out of your rooms and follow the instructions of the guards."

The words sliced through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. Young-il froze, just a mere centimetre away from your lips. For a moment—just a fraction of a second—his fingers twitched against your skin, like they weren’t sure whether to tighten or release. Then, as if burned, he let go.

He stepped back. Once. Then again.

His expression shifted. The heat in his gaze, the raw intensity that had been there just seconds ago, vanished. It was like watching a flame snuffed out in an instant. His posture stiffened, his face smoothing into something unreadable.

You blinked, your breath coming out in pants, your body still tense from the moment that had almost—almost—happened.

But he wasn’t looking at you anymore. He turned toward the door, his movements sharp, controlled, his back straight as if nothing had happened. As if none of it had meant anything.

The sudden shift was jarring. Just seconds ago, he had been right there, holding onto you like you were the only thing tethering him to reality. And now? Now he looked at you like you were nothing at all.

A lump formed in your throat, but you forced it down, watching as he reached for the door. His voice, when he finally spoke, was distant. Detached.

"Let’s go."

That was it. No explanation. No hesitation. Just a command. Without another glance, he stepped outside. The cold air of the arena seeped into your skin as you followed him, but it wasn’t just the room that felt empty. It was the space between you.

Something had changed. Something had broken. And you had no idea how to fix it.

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